A Midwinter's Tale
by LittleMender
Summary: When he caught sight of the blood smear, a small handprint that swept toward the door and still seemed to desperately cling to the frame in one last attempt to resist being taken, he inhaled a sudden, frenzied breath and called Cho.
1. Chapter 1

**In my other multi-chapter stories, I've woven Jane and Lisbon's relationship around a single criminal investigation. I went for different approach in this one. We'll see how it goes.**

**I do not own any part of "The Mentalist" or its characters.**

**A MIDWINTER'S TALE**

1. NOT HOW THEY WERE

He had called her on Sunday.

It wasn't like him to do it—it's not how they were. But she had looked so dejected when she left on Friday. She had told him she knew she would lose her job over him when she had signed on to work with him. By then she was the only unit leader who would. But when one of his stunts had gotten her suspended for this second time, he knew it had hurt her. Just because you see the train coming doesn't mean you won't feel the impact.

He was fairly certain Hightower operated under the three-strike rule. Things had gotten better between Lisbon and her boss since he had embroiled them both in his schemes a few times. He thought if Hightower had a taste of it she might ease off. But bringing her a little too close to the precipice had only heightened her sense of self preservation. She didn't want Jane kept in line just for the sake of the bureau anymore. It was much more personal. He could tell she liked Lisbon. He could tell she even liked him. But Madeleine had established her priorities long before she had come to the CBI. If Lisbon's job had to be lost to protect her own professional agenda, then so be it. He had started to feel as if his own golden self was showing a bit of tarnish now that Hightower had seen firsthand that the metal wasn't entirely pure, entirely precious.

In spite of Lisbon's one-time plea for him not to shut himself off from the team, he had kept up the pretense of not wanting to be close to them. He cloistered himself in his well-deserved purgatory in the attic, rarely partook of closed case pizza, never did magic tricks in the bullpen anymore. But Lisbon, bless her, had forged ahead, acting like it wasn't happening. She wasn't in denial. She just plunged headlong into _making_ him be part of their family. She didn't lecture him anymore. She just wouldn't leave him alone. In spite of his having tried for months to separate himself from her and the team physically and emotionally, the look on her face when she left on Friday after the dressing down from Hightower had pierced him through. He didn't remember ever having such a strong physical reaction to someone else's hurt.

So, he had called her on Sunday. He wasn't surprised when she didn't pick up the first two times, but when by afternoon she was still ignoring his calls, he knew something was wrong. No matter how angry or hurting, she would never withhold herself from him to that extent. He drove to her apartment, noting her car parked in her assigned drive. The complex was peaceful, everyone inside, probably cozying up to watch movies and enjoy hot chocolate to ward of the chill of the wet, mid-winter's day. Californians were very thin skinned when it came to their weather. They'd never survive a Midwestern winter.

He walked along the manicured path feeling somewhat unsettled, uncomfortably aware that he felt at loose ends because he couldn't contact her. He wasn't prepared for the apprehension that gripped him when the doorknob yielded to his hand, and the breeze that suddenly blew past from behind him slowly pushed the door open, pulling an answering puff of wind from inside, probably from a broken window upstairs.

He stepped into her living room and stood silently, patiently, taking in the sight of the space, waiting as if the chaos would speak to him. And, of course, it did. The disorder was violent, indicating a struggle, wild and frantic, lasting for several minutes. There had to have been more than one of them. He stood in the middle of the room, slowly turning in a circle to take in as much as he could in one sweep. When he caught sight of the blood smear, a small handprint that swept along the lower wall toward the door and still seemed to desperately cling to the frame in one last attempt to resist being taken, he inhaled a sudden, frenzied breath and called Cho.


	2. 2: Lost and Found

2. LOST AND FOUND

It took them six days to find her—six of the longest of his life. Jane was by turns lost and focused, combing through what small evidence had been left behind, wishing desperately that he would see _something_, find _anything_ that would lead them to her. Cho was a bastion of calm, though Jane could only guess at the inner turmoil that silently drove him. How he managed to stay so completely in control of himself, Jane couldn't fathom. Rigsby couldn't sit still, couldn't interrogate enough, couldn't phone enough, couldn't _do_ enough. Grace was relentless in searching, pushing. Only once had she suddenly excused herself to stalk to the ladies' room, barely controlling her urge to run, returning twenty minutes later, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed. She cried only once after that, but stayed at her desk, blurred gaze locked on her computer screen, refusing to waste time away.

Finally, they had a breakthrough, oddly with Lisbon's help. When they had exhausted what they thought were all avenues of investigation, Jane had suggested going through her computer files. They were all surprised that Lisbon kept a running journal of criminals she put away—where they were serving time, how much was left of their sentences, when they were released, where they ended up, which ones had threatened her. It pained him that she kept a record of their hatred and anger, their desire for revenge against her.

While the team had counted the days, Lisbon had lost track. She had been taken by the father and brother of a serial murderer she had tracked down and testified against six years ago. Already emotionally bent, prison had broken him. After three years in general population, he had spent two years in the psych ward, tormented by waking nightmares until he had finally, in a rare moment of lucidity, figured out how to kill himself. Jane didn't know what their ultimate plan had been. _They_ probably didn't even know, beyond wanting to make her suffer.

Thankfully, the father had been no rapist, wanting to only use his fists and feet against her. The same could not be said for the son, however. They had heard the gunshots as they approached the rundown shanty in the middle of nowhere, causing them to abandon silent caution for the frenzied rush to save her, praying it wasn't too late. Even Jane had prayed . . . or wished . . . something . . . he wasn't sure.

Tired of his father's refusals to let him have what he wanted, the son had shot the father. Certain of his triumph, he had neglected to shut the cellar door. They crashed into the house and followed the sound of her screaming, Cho rushing ahead and down the stairs with such speed the others could not keep up. One shot then they were all through the door. No one questioned why the son was lying in a heap across the room from her, half of his head blown away, Cho standing over him, clenching his gun, panting deeply in silent, still unquenched rage.

Grace moved to him and put her hand on his shoulder, and he calmed under her touch.

"Cho." Her voice was only barely there as she slid her hand down his arm, covering his gun, willing him to release it into her grasp.

During Grace's exchange with Cho, Rigsby had moved immediately to Lisbon. Jane stood in the doorway, his thoughts a jumble of shocked noise. She whimpered, and his mind cleared, bringing his surroundings and Lisbon's circumstances into sharp focus. The cellar was small and dark, only a bare low-watt bulb lighting the space, controlled by a switch outside the door. There was a bucket on one side of the room, probably the source of the stench. She laid on a pallet of dirty, blood-smeared fabric of some kind, curled tightly into a ball, her back to the room. One arm was extended above her head, her wrist encased in what looked like a manacle from the Middle Ages attached to a chain that was secured to the block work of the wall, allowing her just enough freedom to move to the other side of the narrow room but not to the door. Her jeans lay discarded a few feet away from her. Judging by the evidence at hand, Cho had made it through the door just in time. Rigsby was trying to touch her, but she kept whimpering and pulling away.

"Try just talking to her first." Jane couldn't bring himself to come any further into the room. His reasoning was that she would want her team to handle this, but if he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was so nearly overcome with relief that they had found her that he could not trust his actions if he came any nearer to her. Even so, standing on the fringe, he knew what she needed. Rigsby looked at Jane as if trying to decide if following his instruction was really the thing to do and, not having any other ideas, turned back to look at her where she lay. Without touching her, he leaned only his face a little nearer.

"Boss? Please let me get you out of here."

Her body stilled, and slowly, slowly she straightened. A tentative unchained hand reached out behind her towards him. He looked back at Jane, uncertain exactly how to proceed.

"Just take her hand and hold it. You'll know when she's ready."

Rigsby did as he was told. Grace stooped to the lifeless body across the room and retrieved a small, archaic key from its jean pocket. She slipped to Lisbon's side and wordlessly released her from the iron circlet as Cho stood a few feet away, now calm, watching and waiting. Her small hand twitched in Rigsby's larger one, like an injured bird that couldn't decide if it should trust. She stilled once more, and he felt her barely relax. Keeping hold of her hand in one of his, he slid the other under her shoulders and turned her toward him. Jane swallowed, tight and pained as Grace covered her mouth too late to stifle her gasp.

Lisbon was unrecognizable. Her eyes were swollen shut, her jaw tight and displaced. There were bruises circling her neck, and her blouse hung open, torn apart around what had been a row of neat, small white buttons. Her bra was ripped nearly in two. The skin exposed along her torso was a range of colors, shades of blue and purple to green to brown. Her face, clothes and hands were spotted with dried blood. Rigsby sobbed once quietly as he lifted her in his arms. Apparently unable to spend their madness, they had beaten her every day—as recently as that morning.

They walked to the front door as a unit, Jane and the team curved around her to protect her from the elements, both natural and human. Grace halted their procession before they cleared the threshold to make their way out to the waiting ambulance. She found an old blanket and wrapped it around Lisbon, murmuring, "She can't be seen like this."


	3. 3: Whatever It Takes

3. WHATEVER IT TAKES

Over the next week, the team visited Lisbon regularly in the hospital. Against hospital rules, Jane came at night and stayed while she lay in a drug-induced sleep, dozing in a recliner he dragged in from the ICU waiting room, gone before the nurses made early rounds in the morning. At first, she had been hurt in a resigned way, thinking he wasn't visiting her. But after the third night, he left the chair in the room as evidence that he had been there. She seemed to be able to rest better after that.

Thankfully, her jaw wasn't broken, just dislocated. Bruises on her front and back were matched to the points of the boots the father and son were wearing. Her entire torso had to be tightly taped to allow the three broken ribs to heal. The doctors said the bruised ones would give her more trouble. Surgery was required to repair her left wrist. It had been broken as they snapped the manacle over it the first day and was left unattended during her ordeal. They never referred to it as her captivity.

Finally, she was allowed to go home. Grace went with her, just to stay for a few days until she could take care of herself. Hightower had insisted she take at least a full month of medical leave-_after_ she rescinded the suspension. Jane never told anyone that he had been startled to wakefulness one night at the hospital to find Hightower standing on the other side of Lisbon's bed, staring down at her with a look he recognized as self-recrimination. How Madeleine thought any of this could have been her fault, he didn't know, but he knew that look well enough.

Lisbon had been home for two days, and he knew Grace intended to come to work that day, and while he knew it really wasn't his place or his business to do so, he let his car take him to Marie's early in the morning to buy two donuts and one bear claw. Then the stubborn vehicle carried him—against his own better judgment—to her apartment. He didn't know who or what to blame for making him actually walk to the front door and ring the bell.

"Thank God you're here."

It was as if Grace expected him. He hadn't called first; why would she expect him? She took hold of the front of his suit and pulled him through the door, shutting it behind him so quickly he didn't know if it was to keep something out or keep him from escaping. She frowned down at the donut bag and thought aloud, "She was craving Marie's yesterday."

She looked back up at his face, smiling quizzically at him. She wondered how he knew. He wasn't sure how—he just always did. He looked at her, waiting for her to spill. It didn't take long. She looked toward the top of the stairs then brought her face to within inches of his. Her voice was low and urgent.

"She won't—I don't think she can . . ."

She frowned again, looking down, shaking her head, searching for the words. She looked back up at the stairs. Then back to him. That thing in her head that helped her be tactful was shut off.

"Look. Have you ever been able to get her to talk to you?"

"I get her to talk all of the time." What kind of question was that?

"I don't mean the silly, stupid, stuff. I'm not talking about banter or flirting—"

"_Flirting?_"

"—or your usual crap. Have you ever gotten her to really _talk_?" She looked like she was willing to hurt him if he didn't take this seriously. And he did. He thought hard, combing through every conversation they'd ever had at light speed. The truth sort of hurt. She had managed to sidestep nearly every serious conversation he had ever attempted while she had subtly been able to draw him out more than a time or two. _He_ had talked to _her_ without really accomplishing the opposite.

"Not so much."

She closed her eyes and lowered her head in disappointment.

"I've rarely found it necessary." He knew it was childish, but he didn't want her to know he had tried and simply not succeeded.

"Well, find it necessary _now_." She snarled at him. He was right when he had once told Grace she knew how to be a bitch if she'd only let herself. A door opened somewhere upstairs, and she released the hold she had taken of his shirt front. One deep breath, and the light optimistic smile she usually wore slid onto her features.

They both turned to the stairs as Lisbon dragged herself down their length. When she reached the bottom, Grace greeted her, the fake cheer in her voice just light enough to not sound cloying.

"Hey, Boss, look who's here!"

Lisbon raised her head, body suddenly tense with apprehension. She looked at Jane, calculating something—he wasn't sure what. He raised the bag of donuts level with his head and shook it twice. She relaxed and walked toward where they stood just in front of the kitchen doorway, stopping about five feet away. Grace moved away and Jane slid in the opposite direction, following her lead. Lisbon walked slowly between them, taking the bag from Jane's outstretched hand, and moved to the coffee maker.

"I'm going to work. Jane's going to stay a while. Okay, Boss?"

Lisbon didn't pause in her movements and didn't turn, only offering a partial shrug. Jane looked at Grace, an excuse on his lips, quiet panic rising in his throat. Before he could get a word out, she closed the gap between them, taking that threatening hold on his shirt once more. Her voice was low and menacing. Where had she been hiding _that_ all these years?

"Get over your stupid, asinine self, and _make_ her talk to you. I don't care _what_ you have to do. _Just do it_."

She gave a final wordless hiss as she shook him by his shirt once then released him with a shove before she barreled out the door. Does it qualify as a slam if it's not loud?

Lisbon shuffled back past him, bear claw and coffee in hand, and sat gingerly on the couch. He took a minute to really look at her. She appeared to be bone weary. Probably wasn't taking anything to help her sleep, so she probably hadn't slept since she'd been home. The bruising on her face was fading. Her left wrist was still casted—would be for seven more weeks. She moved so carefully. The ribs must still be tender. Then he took in what she was wearing. The oversized sports jersey wasn't a surprise. But the sweatpants, socks and full robe were a bit much. The Sacramento winter was cool—even chill at night—but this was overkill. The long sleeves of the robe fell over her hands, and the collar stood high enough to cover much of her neck. If she could have located a ski mask, he was sure she would be wearing it.

Lisbon was hiding.

He slid out of his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair that sat at her desk, just inside the door. He was glad she didn't flinch or pull into herself as he walked toward her. But he realized that she wasn't letting it register, and he thought that might be worse. He sat near her on the couch on her left side and watched her as she slowly ate the bear claw, meticulously retrieving the crumbs and flecks of glaze as they dropped into her lap. When she finished, there literally wasn't a bit left. She put her empty mug on the coffee table and sank back into the couch.

He had taken the time to glance around the apartment. There were new locks on the door—two deadbolts and a chain-as well as a security keypad just inside the door. The place was immaculate. Obviously all the work of the team. The boxes that had stood stacked in one corner the last time he had been there were gone. Photographs in single frames and collages hung on the walls, and other things—probably from the boxes—were placed around in a homey, artistic way. Obviously the work of Grace. He wondered idly if the thick chenille throw on the back of the couch had been boxed away somewhere. Why would Lisbon not have unpacked something so luxuriously comforting? He should have made her talk to him before. It would make it easier now to understand why she lived the way she lived, worked the way she worked. Of course, he knew most of it. He wished he would have heard it from her.

He wasn't exactly sure how to go about it. Lisbon might be translucent for the most part, but there were still those thick swirls of opaque from time to time. A mistake could prove volatile. He realized Grace had been waiting for her to talk, to share about the events of two weeks ago. That wasn't how Lisbon worked. She had to be drawn out, coaxed out of hiding with a sure and skilled hand, and she had to know beyond a shadow of a doubt it was safe. Beyond that, she would never confide in a subordinate unless it was Cho. And Cho would not pry. Going over his options, it occurred to him to try in reverse of how he had told Rigsby to approach her the day they had found her. Try just touching her first.

He reached over and took her left, casted hand in his right. She tensed but didn't withdraw. He reckoned a full minute passed before she relaxed. He scooted closer to her, transferring her hand to his left as he slid his right arm around her shoulders. She tensed again but, again, did not withdraw. In less than a minute she relaxed against him. They sat quietly like that for a bit, and when she sensed him opening his mouth to speak, she suddenly leaned full against him, sliding her arms around him at chest level, pressing her left ear against him just over his heart.

"Shh," was all she said. He sat for a moment, his elbows bent and arms awkwardly suspended in mid-air on either side of him. After he slowly lowered his arms to his sides, she snaked her right arm from around him and smoothed her palm upward along his chest until two fingertips rested lightly against the side of his neck.

"Lisbon—"

"Shh."

It took him only a few seconds to realize she was listening to his heart, feeling his pulse. He curved his right arm around her and held her firmly in place but not too tightly. His left arm rested over her right, his hand rubbing circles on her shoulder. When her breathing evened and the hand near his neck slumped away, he smoothly pivoted on the couch and laid down pulling her down with him. Feeling her relaxed against him in deep sleep, he was out in less than five.


	4. 4: Truth and Dare

**Thanks so much to everyone who has read and reviewed and alert-ed and favorite-ed! You are truly appreciated.**

4. TRUTH AND DARE

She came awake slowly—so slowly, it took a while for the rise and fall of his chest to register. Her instinct was to recoil, but the feel and scent of him was familiar.

_When had she memorized his scent?_

Her eyes focused on the clock across the room. Two twenty-three in the afternoon. Had she really slept for over six hours? Willing herself to be calm, she slowly lifted herself off of him. His eyes were open, and he was watching her, gauging her reaction to him. Judging from the look of him, he hadn't been awake long. She untangled herself from him and sat back, directly facing him, one knee crooked sideways toward the couch's back even as he raised up and scooted his hips back so that he sat sideways, mirroring her position, their bent legs only an inch apart. This Lisbon, watchful and wary, was different from the fragile and pliant Lisbon he had fallen asleep with. Not knowing exactly what approach to use with her now, he reached for her, lightly wrapping his fingers around her unbroken wrist, the tip of his thumb on her pulse.

"About what happened—"

She wrenched away from him defiantly.

"I'm not a suspect."

"I know. I didn't mean to treat you like one."

His voice was low and steady, his gaze direct and unblinking. When he reached out and laid two fingertips on her knee, she batted his hand away angrily.

"I'm not a mark either."

He expected her to stand and storm away, but she sat, watching him, defying him to get it right. He looked away, searching for the right words to say. He put on his earnest face. No, that wasn't right. He took off his mask. She would know. She had seen him exposed to her before. He thought if he talked about a subject he'd never broached, something about which she'd never dared ask, about which he would never dare speak, it would draw her out. One hard truth for another. It was extreme, but he believed it was warranted. He took a deep, almost pained breath.

"When my wife and daughter died—"

She rose so suddenly it almost threw him off balance. She moved to the window, her arms folded around herself, feet planted shoulders-width apart. She was looking out, but he could tell she wasn't really seeing anything.

"Get out."

She had seen it as a ploy. Did she really think he was that low? He had to admit he'd only ever given her good reason to.

_Wait_.

He'd been a friend. He'd been part of her "family"—even when he didn't want to be. There had been plenty of times he'd been up front with her, helped her, watched out for her. He had bailed her out of trouble as often as he'd plunged her headlong into it. He hadn't failed her completely. He was the one who had called her—come looking for her. He may have given her a reason to think so little of him, but that didn't give her the right. Injury was added to the insult, and fueled by the combination of unresolved fear for her and frustration at not knowing what to do, a heated and irrational anger sparked and surged through him. Grace said she didn't care what he did. He didn't care either.

He moved more _at_ her than toward her, spinning her around to face him, pushing her against the wall, grasping her forearms and pinning them on either side of her head.

"You know I can hurt you." She spat angrily.

"You're injured and weak. Odds are in my favor." He snarled back. He pushed his body full against hers. She struggled against him, her defiant eyes never leaving his sneering ones. He knew it was cruel in light of her recent ordeal, and part of him couldn't believe he had resorted to brute force. But he was at a loss and he was tired of her angry, super-cop crap. _She's waffled on the trust issue for years. She doesn't then she does then she doesn't. I guess we'll see now._

Her movements slowed and decreased in force. There it was again—the injured, frightened bird, fluttering against him before she stopped struggling altogether. They both stilled. Now her gaze wouldn't move above his chest, and his was caught on the wall above her head. His breath ghosted across her forehead. She turned away and closed her eyes. His breathing was shallow—he couldn't seem to fill his lungs. His parted lips moved along her hairline down the side of her face barely skimming her skin. When they reached her jaw, her eyes opened in slits and slid sideways at him.

"This is low. Even for you."

He pushed away from her so angry he almost wanted to strike her. She looked at him like she fully expected him to. Her arms still hung against the wall where he had held them, but when a look of triumph shone in her eyes, he knew he had to get away from her before he lost control altogether.

He strode to the door and wrenched it open pausing on the threshold not bothering to look back at her. The sigh his body forced out of him was as ragged as his voice.

"Does Thai sound good?"

"Yes." Her voice was raw.

"I'll be back at 6." That almost sounded normal.

"Yes." Now she just sounded small.

"Lock the door. And set the alarm."

He stepped out and pulled the door shut without waiting for her response. As he stalked away, he heard the sounds of her compliance. He unlocked his car door and lowered himself into the seat, pulling the door shut, sealing himself off from the world around him. Grasping the steering wheel, he leaned his head on it, willing his heart to stop pounding. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, wondering the same thing Lisbon did as she collapsed on her couch.

"_What the hell just happened?"_


	5. 5: I'll Show You Mine

**I had a problem with the story and had to delete and republish, hence possibly deleting it from your favorite and alert lists. I hope this longer chapter makes up for it a bit. I apologize if that created any confusion. Thank you all again for favorite-ing, alert-ing, reading and reviewing.**

5. I'LL SHOW YOU MINE

He drove around for a couple of hours before he went into the office to check on things and to tell Grace not to bother coming to Lisbon's that night. When she asked him if he'd gotten anywhere with the boss, he just shrugged his shoulders.

"Eh. It's a process."

"Maybe I'd better—"

"I'm staying with her tonight." It was a declaration of intent.

"I don't think she'll want you there all night." Grace looked at him warily.

"I'll stay as long as she wants me then. And I'll go back to check on her first thing in the morning."

He managed to say it with a nonchalance he didn't feel. His encounter with Lisbon had left him shaken. He wanted to make things right with her and find out why in the world she had been so angry and so bent on pushing him to such an extreme. Though it was a different sort of madness, he had not felt anything so explosive in his entire life outside his madness for Red John. Never would the idea of striking a woman, much less pinning her against the wall for the sake of sheer anger, ever have crossed the most remote reaches of his mind. Embarrassed that such a thing had happened with Lisbon of all people, he needed to get back at least some of the control he knew was necessary to keep their relationship on the safe and even keel he preferred.

Not knowing anything of his reasoning and the emotional upheaval he had experienced, Grace seemed to be satisfied with his answer. He asked about messages or possible cases to see if he was needed and was a little surprised that no one expected him to stay. No one expected him _not_ to be with Lisbon. He wondered what they all thought they knew.

He went upstairs to retrieve a few things, got back in his car, drove around for a bit, called Lisbon's favorite Thai place and stopped at a wine shop before picking up the take-out and heading to her apartment.

As he walked to the door, the cool breeze blew up from behind him, and he had a sickening sense of déjà vu. He reached for the doorknob, relieved when it didn't turn in his hand. He barely had time to draw his finger back from the bell before he heard the locks slide. He pushed the door open to see Lisbon standing a few feet away hugging herself and stepped in quickly and pushed the door closed behind him, shielding her from the outside world.

His gaze made a circuit around the living room as he discarded his jacket. There were candles everywhere, burning against the darkness. It wasn't anything romantic—she just didn't want the lights on. He caught sight of two place settings on the coffee table. He arched one eyebrow at her in question, and she shrugged one shoulder in response then followed him into the kitchen. He showed her the bottle of wine, and she indicated a drawer. He retrieved the wine opener, and she produced two glasses. He poured cabernet into each glass, set the bottle on the counter and took the glass she offered him. At the same time, they raised their drinks to their lips and watched each other over the rim then lowered their glasses in sync. He had no idea what to do or say past that.

"Please tell me you got duck . . . And Tom yum koong?"

Well, that was easy. Apparently the mutual anger that had seemed so consuming earlier had dissipated. But he still wanted to clear the air.

"Lisbon—"

"Save it."

"I'm sorry about this afternoon." He blurted the words out before she could cut him off.

"Don't worry. It wasn't the first—"

"Please don't finish that thought."

"Sorry," she choked the word out as she looked away from him uncomfortably.

He looked toward the living room and, picking up the take-out boxes, gestured in that general direction.

"Shall we?"

She picked up the bottle of wine and walked past him to the coffee table. One place setting was in front of the couch. She placed her wine glass next to the plate opposite then dropped a large throw pillow on the floor in front of it. Gingerly, she lowered herself, folding her legs to fit under the table before Jane could stop her.

"You're too old and creaky to sit on the floor," she explained without looking at him.

"Ah. Yes. Thank you for that." He smiled at the box of duck with tamarind sauce he was emptying onto her plate. "Just remember you're going to need someone to help you up from there."

They were silent as they situated their food, passing the boxes back and forth, moving in sync again. Lisbon looked at her full plate and sighed. There were things that needed to be said, but where to start? She decided against the chopsticks from the restaurant and lifted her fork, spearing and taking in a bite of duck. He smiled at her, and she paused in chewing to quirk an eyebrow at him.

"People who've been through what you went through tend to react by either adhering to comfortable routines or completely abandoning them." He was careful not to call her a victim. "I was just wondering if your using a fork is a comfort or your version of changing things up."

It was lame, especially for him, but she smiled at his attempt to get the conversation going. Fishing a piece of chicken out of her soup she didn't look at him when she spoke. It was so conversational, as if she was telling him about a new shirt she'd bought. He supposed that made it easier for her.

"I was so angry that somebody got the drop on me. Angry that they came into my home and put their hands on me. Angry that I couldn't get away. That they acted like they had a right . . . " Her voice trailed off, and she frowned at her fork, seeming to remember something-some other time, some other hurt, someone else who had no right. ". . . a right to do what they did. Once I could do something about it, they were dead, and I didn't know who to be angry at anymore."

Knowing what she was remembering about her past, recent and long ago, he felt anger stir in him. He had made it a practice not to think too deeply about the hard parts of her life that he'd learned of over the years-her mother, her father, everything. It always stirred something. He was ashamed that he had handled her so roughly, and he wanted to tell her so, but she had brought any discussion about what had happened between them earlier to a very definite end. He didn't want to be part of that history, and he hoped she didn't think of him that way.

He pulled his mind back to what she had said. She was offering a kind of explanation for her behavior that afternoon. Not an apology. Still, he wished he had a better understanding of what was going on with her. She tilted her head and pressed on, still not looking at him.

"I shouldn't have . . . You acted like . . . you just came in and—" She looked up at him, her gaze intense, her tone definite and firm. "You're not them. Not like them. You're not . . ." She shrugged at him and looked back down, choosing another bite from her plate. When she spoke again, she reverted back to her previous light, conversational tone.

"You started to tell me something earlier about your wife and daughter. Tell me now."

He paused mid-chew and looked at her, contemplating. Apparently Lisbon was playing I'll-show-you-mine-if-you'll-show-me-yours.

"I was . . . undone. That's the only word I can think of that describes it." He looked at her as if he had asked her a question, asking if she could understand what he was trying to say, decipher what he meant.

She wiped her mouth before she took a drink of wine then set the glass down. Looking at him again, she waited for him to continue. Feeling like she truly did know, he tried to put into words what he'd never actually said to anyone before. He wanted to tell Lisbon at least part of the truth, not the version of it he had told Sophie Miller to procure his release from the mental hospital.

"All my life I had tried to get away. I wanted to get away from what my father wanted from me, and then I just wanted to get away from him. Angela wanted to leave the carnie life, and I loved her, and if I wanted to be with her I had to leave it, too. I wanted to leave—not just to be with her and take care of her. I wanted to make something more of myself. Too bad I had no idea what that meant."

He was talking too much, telling too much. He needed to measure his words.

"I wanted more. There was this need, this _drive_ to have more, make more. I was still trying to get away from what I had been. Deep inside, I knew I wasn't any different. I was still my father's son, still that carnie kid. 'The Psychic Boy Wonder'," he laughed mirthlessly. "I was a fake, a cheat. I had to keep moving, keep running. It kept me from looking, from seeing how empty and shallow and nothing—"

She sat watching him, his hands rubbing in agitation up and down the front of his vest, his gaze down and to the side, a slight frown marring his features. She had never thought him capable of such uncertainty—he was always so sure of himself. She didn't dare speak. His shoulders slumped and his forearms rested on his thighs supporting the weight, hands clasped lightly.

"I was a fake . . .," he repeated low and almost mournful. "—except with them." He watched his hands fidget with each other, fingers linking then pulling apart, straightening then twisting together. "That night . . . it all caught up with me. Every lie I had told, every mark I had scammed, every dollar I had ever taken, every ounce of pride and scorn, and I just . . ."

He looked up at her and gave her a weak smile.

". . . unraveled." His eyes were stinging, and he wondered why he couldn't stop telling her these things, accepting that it was too late now.

"The first thing I felt was the pain. It hurt . . . I know I tried to kill myself to make it stop, but I can't remember that part of it. That's why I ended up in the hospital. I can't remember much of anything from then. It's fuzzy. Eventually I came to feel other things: grief and rage. I needed to find him, to make him pay, to finish it, to make it all stop and undo what I . . . I have to do it—I have this . . ."

"Drive?" She said it softly so that there would be no sting of judgment to it, hoping he realized what he was saying. Another weak smile and a shrug told her he did.

"I think there are a lot of things you don't remember."

He picked up his chopsticks to resume eating and watched his noodles spiral around them as he twirled them against the plate. He didn't know what she was getting at. And he didn't know why he was talking about this. This wasn't going at all as he had planned. They were caught in this netherworld of mutual pain and suffering, and he was the one spilling his guts, out of control. It was surreal. That was the only explanation he had as to why it was so easy to talk with her, right here, right now.

"You don't remember any of the good things. Not unless something makes you, not unless something pulls it out of you, forces you to remember. Do you ever remember them smiling or laughing or singing? Do you remember Christmas or playing in a park or watching your wife walk down the aisle on your wedding day?"

He had stopped twirling and just stared unseeing at the plate now. Why was this all about him? A memory welled up in front of his mind's eye, and it almost choked him.

"She had this ballerina outfit—pale pink with a pink skirt. Layers of sheer pink that floated around her when she would spin." He paused, still looking down. His smile was a mixture of sweet memory and pain. She couldn't breathe with watching him. Seeing him like this, over a moment that would seem insignificant to anyone else, she didn't wonder why he didn't want to remember.

"My wife would put dress-up glitter on her face—pixie dust she called it—and she would hold her arms out and spin until she collapsed on the floor laughing." He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through parted lips and turned his head barely to the side, listening for something he seemed to hear in the distance beyond his reach. The breath came out in a whoosh, and his face crumpled in a look of loss and regret. "I would scoop her up and bury my face in her neck—"

Something fluttered over his hand, but it was gone by the time he blinked and came back to himself. He looked across at Lisbon as she speared a piece of broccoli and put it in her mouth. She chewed enough to swallow a part of it then kept chewing, talking around it, looking at her plate, her fork hovering as she decided where her next bite would come from, the ease of her posture and motions so completely at odds with the content of their conversation. He found her detached nonchalance unsettling.

"When my mom died, it was like I was under water. I wasn't drowning, but I wasn't breathing either. I felt disconnected from everyone around me. It seemed odd that people were still talking and eating and getting in their cars and going places. The one person I could've talked to about it was gone. My dad was always the fun one. He took us to ballgames at Wrigley and to the zoo and the Field Museum, played catch in the backyard. But he wasn't so good with the hard stuff. He loved us as best he could—he did. Just turned out to not be very good at it."

There it was again-her past and his stirring. He knew there was much more to it, that it was much worse than she was willing to say. The fact that she linked her childhood with what had happened to her recently was proof of that. He remembered the words he'd once overheard her say to a father, grief-stricken and driven to drink by the loss of his wife, telling him part of her story about her own father. _"Killed himself and damn near killed us."_ He had been surprised she shared something so private and painful with a complete stranger. But not with him. Never with him. It's how he had learned nearly everything he knew about her-inadvertently overheard conversations and second-hand searchings. She picked up her wine glass and frowned into it. He lifted the bottle, and she put the glass down so he could fill it.

"When did you come up for air?"

She smiled at him ruefully and drank deep, inhaling the rich red scent. Seeing that he was waiting for her to answer, she gently put the glass down without taking her eyes or fingers off of it.

"I pretty much always feel like I'm in over my head."

He was startled more at that admission than anything else she had said since he arrived. His only response was to lift his glass to her in salute. She did the same to him, acknowledging his own unspoken confession, and they both took a long pull of wine.

They finished the meal in silence, a wordless agreement that they had talked enough. He stacked the dishes and carried them into the kitchen, leaving the wine and glasses. When he came back, she had rolled to her knees and was trying to get up by pushing against the coffee table top. He rushed to her and grasped her elbows from behind, pulling her straight up. She looked up at him over her shoulder and grinned.

"Now I know how you must feel all the time."

He squeezed her elbows until she winced.

"No more old-age jokes."

She bent to pick up the food boxes. He beat her to it and motioned toward the couch.

"Sit."

"Bossy."

"Brat."

She moved to the bookshelf and slid out a dvd, popped the disk into the player and settled on the couch. She let it play through the promos and ads then pushed pause, giving him a chance to finish up in the kitchen. Eventually, he flipped off the light and came back into the living room.

"What are we watching?"

"'Philadelphia Story.'"

"You're kidding. No 'Die Hard' or 'Terminator'?"

"It may interest you to know I have very eclectic tastes. And I don't own a single 'Terminator' dvd."

"You are a deep well, my dear."

She patted the couch a good arm's length away, and he took the hint. Close but not too close. Sitting near but not next to her, he held the wine bottle over her empty glass with a questioning look.

"No. Painkillers before bed."

He refilled his own glass instead, emptying the bottle, and sat back on the couch as she pushed play, glad she had waited so he could watch the opening credits. As the story played out, he drew attention to every instance of Katharine Hepburn's irrational anger and secret attraction, and she pointed out Cary Grant's limitless conceit and penchant for scheming. Neither of them pitied Jimmy Stewart for getting caught in the crossfire—somebody that sappy who didn't see the good thing right in front of him deserved what he got. By the time the movie ended, he was slumped sideways toward her, and she was nearly leaning on his shoulder. The screen went bright teal and silent. He didn't think before he spoke.

"I was angry at them, too."

"I know."

"Will you be okay tonight?"

"Sure."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He went up the stairs to use the washroom before leaving and found her pain pills on the counter. Carrying them back down the stairs, he handed them to her then carried the wine glasses and empty bottle into the kitchen. He came back with a glass of water.

"Bottoms up."

"What? You're going to watch me take it?"

"Yes, and then I'm going to stand outside your door and listen to you lock up and punch in your alarm code."

"Who's the mother hen now?"

"Just take the pill, Lisbon."

She did as she was told and rose to follow him to the door. He paused, looking at the keypad.

"No."

"What?"

"I'm not giving you my security code."

"What if I need it? In case of emergency?"

"You having my security code would be an emergency."

"It's supposed to be something you'll remember. Birthday maybe?"

"How stupid do you think I am?"

"Birthday of someone close to you then."

"Nope."

"Anniversary?"

She raised both eyebrows at him. Yes, then.

"Your parents' wedding anniversary?"

"Nope."

"Something you would never forget . . . Graduation day from the academy? Date you started at SFPD? Date you left? Date you started at CBI?"

She chuckled and shook her head. "Nope, nope, nope and nope. But it is definitely a date I will never forget."

He looked at her for a moment with his eyebrows raised, a small smile playing at his lips.

"I will find out, you know."

"Not tonight, you won't."

"See you tomorrow, Lisbon."

"Good night, Jane."


	6. 6: Off Kilter

6. OFF KILTER

She awoke at eight o'clock exactly to the sound of her security alarm going off.

"Lis-_bon_?"

"Ugh. You have got to be kidding," she groaned into her pillow.

"_Lis_-bon!"

She hauled herself out of her bed and thumped down the stairs, glare firmly in place.

"I'm assuming you have sixty seconds to punch in the code before the cops show up," he said over his shoulder as he breezed into the kitchen to set his grocery bags on the counter.

She stomped to the keypad, wincing with each step and punched in the code like she was trying to make a point. Too late, she realized he was peering over her shoulder. She wheeled on him, her face only inches away from his. She poked his chest much like she had punched in her code. He cringed, bringing his hand to his chest and looking at her in disbelief, his lips framing a drawn out "ow".

"You will forget whatever it is you saw!" She was just pointing at him now, her other hand balled into a fist at her hip as he rubbed his chest.

"How did you get in here, anyway? Jane? . . . _Did you pick my deadbolts_? They're brand new! And how the hell did you get the chain off?"

He was peering down the top of his shirt now, his chin tucked back as far as he could get it.

"Cho and Rigsby must have only taken out enough links to keep their forearms from reaching around. They're a lot bulkier than I am."

He patted his chest and looked up to see her staring at him with her arms folded tight against her small frame, obviously not swallowing his flimsy explanation.

"You're really upset about this." He seemed surprised.

"I'm not upset. The locks are supposed to keep people out."

"They keep people out. They just don't keep _me_ out."

She was frowning at him now. It didn't occur to him that she would get this irritated. How long had she known him anyway? Ah, well. An apology was in order.

"Lisbon, I'm sorry. I didn't think—"

He was cut off by her snort. They stood, staring at one another. She rolled her eyes.

"I am not upset."

She really was. He saw the telltale sign and raised one index finger to point it out.

"Yes, yes, you are. When you're upset or thrown off kilter, you suck in your bottom lip, and it makes your slight overbite more pronounced."

She hated her overbite. Jutting her chin out at him, she demanded, "What's your tell? What do you do when you're 'off kilter'?"

He'd done it again—upset her, maybe even frightened her. He didn't mean to start off the day by mucking it up again. He tried to smile to lighten his embarrassment. "Apparently I frighten and manhandle tiny women."

Last night she had given an explanation for her behavior without apology. He had given her an apology, and now she had the explanation. He had been worried, even after they'd found her. She hadn't forgotten his staying at the hospital every night while she slept with no one to talk to in spite of the fact that he hated the place and was probably bored out of his mind. She knew he cared about her, but he sure had a screwy way of showing it. _Go figure_.

"What's in the bags?"

His face brightened immediately, and he rubbed his palms together with relish.

"Br-r-r-eakfast!"

"What are we having?"

"It's a surprise. You go upstairs and try for a shower today while I cook. It'll be ready when you're done if you don't dawdle."

He turned her around and gave her a little shove. She looked back to retort over her shoulder.

"I never dawdle."

As she started up the stairs, he yelled from the kitchen.

"Make sure you leave the door open!"

"Excuse me?"

He peered around the doorway at her and explained in his patient voice. "In case you need help—so I can hear you call."

She narrowed her eyes at the doorway after his head disappeared. She walked up the stairs, gathered some clean clothes from her bedroom and walked into the bathroom, leaving the door opened no more than an inch. Rethinking, she pulled it open another two inches. Just over twenty minutes later she walked into the kitchen. Though his back was to the doorway, Jane could tell the instant she stepped into the room.

"Good, you're done. Any longer and I'd have come looking for you."

He finished plating the food and turned toward her, intending to walk into the living room. Her long hair was still wet, but she had plaited it in two loose braids. She was wearing a black tank top over black, gray and baby-blue plaid flannel sleep pants. He could just barely make out the bulk of the tape around her mid-section.

"Did you tape yourself?" He could kick himself for giving away his level of attentiveness.

"What? I was supposed to ask _you_?"

Thankfully, she moved past him to the coffee maker before she could see his dry swallow. He walked into the living room and sat on the floor, mimicking Lisbon's position of the previous evening.

"Omelets?" she asked, walking up behind him. He could hear the smile in her voice. She put his tea down next to him and walked around the table with her coffee and sat down on the couch moving a little more naturally.

"With asparagus, mushrooms, prosciutto and Gruyere cheese."

Her eyes widened as she smiled at him in delight. She took a bite, chewed once, closed her eyes and sighed out a hum.

"Good?"

She opened her eyes and nodded vigorously. "Mm-hmm!"

She cut off and speared another bite and ate it with relish. His heart felt lighter just watching her. He had a feeling this was pre-CBI Lisbon. Maybe even pre-cop, pre-sad Lisbon.

"So, August 19th."

"What?"

"Your security code. 0819. August 19th. The anniversary of the date you'll never forget."

"You'll never guess, so don't even try." In spite of her grin, he saw just a hint of apprehension in her eyes. He didn't think about it before. Just because it's an anniversary doesn't mean the event was a happy one. He dropped the guessing game.

"How do you know there's no case?"

"How do you know I know there's no case?"

"You're not asking me about it or trying to push me out the door."

"Cho called me while I was upstairs. He calls a couple of times a day to keep me in the loop." _And to check in_, Jane added silently. He had seen how feverishly Cho had worked to find her as well as the look on his face as he stood over the body in the basement. "And your phone hasn't rung since you've been here."

"How do you know?"

"Door was open. Remember?"

"What if I had my phone on vibrate?"

"You usually only have it on vibrate at the office so I can't tell when you're getting a call or a text. And I would've heard you talking. You wouldn't've known I could hear you because you didn't expect me to actually keep the door open."

Another bite. In spite of their conversation, her omelet was nearly gone. He took it as a compliment that she hadn't touched her coffee yet. And she was right. He was surprised she'd kept the door open.

"So, what's your plan for today?"

"Breakfast with you, clean up the dishes, go to work and back here for dinner."

"What'll you bring me?"

"I've already brought it. I'm cooking again."

"What are we having?"

"It's a surprise."

"I'm not supposed to look in the fridge all day?"

He smiled at her ribbing, answering again with mock patience. "You can look in the fridge, just not in the bags I brought."

"You trust me that much?"

"I trust you completely."

They looked at one another levelly for a moment. As she took her last bite of omelet, she grinned at him slyly.

"Big mistake, boy-o."

"_Boy-o?_ You sound like an Irish gangster."

"Check my family tree sometime." She winked at him over her coffee mug.

He finished his omelet as she took her last drink then pushed away from the table. His movement hitched when he tried to rise, and she stood and extended her hand to him.

"Need a little help, Gramps?" she asked as they clasped hands and she helped him to his feet. Upon rising, he pulled one of her braids.

"You need to respect your elders, Missy."

Both of their cell phones rang at the same time.

"Lisbon." "Jane."

"What?" Cho and Van Pelt asked in unison. Lisbon and Jane walked away from each other as they continued their respective phone conversations, Jane toward the stairs and Lisbon to the kitchen.

"We caught a case, Boss. Middle-aged male found by a jogger in Del Paso Park. Gunshot wound to the chest. Local LEOs are on the scene. Our coroner's headed there now."

"Okay, Cho. You know what to do. Thanks for letting me know."

They hung up and looked at each other.

"You better take off. I've got the dishes."

"About dinner—"

"I'll be here." _Waiting_. He knew she would never say it aloud, but he heard it as clearly as if she had spoken it. "Besides, I think I can handle chicken piccata."

"You peeked."

"Told you." She walked to the door, opened it and held it for him as he shrugged into his jacket and followed her.

"Lock the door—"

"And set the alarm," she finished with him. "I know, I know."

He kissed her on the top side of her head and walked out the door, pulling up short just on the other side. He heard her slide the bolts and punch in the first two numbers of the code. After a long pause, she pushed the last two numbers slowly.

He'd kissed Madeleine Hightower once on the cheek, knowing it would throw her off balance at least momentarily. He'd just kissed Lisbon without a thought. No plan. No scheme. He decided to forget about it. He knew Lisbon would act like it never happened.

It wasn't until he got in his car that he remembered he'd joined the team four years ago . . . in August.

At Del Paso Park, Van Pelt fell into step with him as he walked toward the crime scene.

"How'd it go last night?"

"We had Thai and watched a movie. I made sure she took some pain medicine before I left."

"And this morning?"

"Better," he answered in a purposely casual tone. "She has a way to go. But at least she's wearing fewer clothes."

He smiled to himself as he continued walking, leaving Grace where she had frozen in her tracks.


	7. 7: Is the Safety On?

7. IS THE SAFETY ON?

He must have some type of secondary post-traumatic stress syndrome. Every time he approached her door after dark and a breeze stirred, he felt a small fear grip him, not knowing what he might find. He had become aware of the fact that although he had been able to maintain firm control over his emotions and imagination at the time, walking into Lisbon's apartment that evening—was it only a couple of weeks ago?—had seemed eerily like walking in on another violent and ugly scene a few years back, enough so that the gentle breeze always produced a wrenching sensation somewhere below his stomach. Just as aware that it was neither judicious nor prudent to dwell on such thoughts if one did not wish to know the reason behind them, he tamped them down deep where he kept all other disturbing thoughts, next to the knowing that her bloodied handprint on the wall had caused as nearly as dramatic an upheaval in him, if only momentarily, as the blood-painted smile had years before. It didn't matter that the perpetrator was a complete unknown; the outcome would have been the same. The only realization he allowed to reach the light of day is that he did not know what he would have done if they hadn't found her. That and how imperative it was that Lisbon not know how deeply it had all affected him.

Again, the doorknob didn't yield, and he breathed easy. He knocked softly, not wanting to wake her if she had dozed off. It was nearly ten o'clock, and he wasn't even sure she would still be up, but he had promised to stop by. Not promised exactly but as good as. She didn't answer, and he pulled the lock picks out of his pocket. He could only imagine the fireworks if she found out he had an actual set of picks. He'd pulled them out of storage when he had first seen her new locks. Locks like that called for more than a slap and a tickle with a paper clip.

He disengaged both deadbolts with relative ease and softly opened the door. He frowned when he saw that the chain was off. So was the alarm. She was asleep face-down on the couch, two place settings on the coffee table along with an opened bottle of chardonnay and a half-full wine glass. The television was on, the volume so low the voices emitting from it sounding like soft murmurs. Fewer candles were lit tonight, and a lamp must have been on upstairs, its light falling softly from the landing. If the aroma was anything to go by, Lisbon wasn't kidding when she said she could handle chicken piccata. When he walked quietly to the couch and knelt beside her, he could see that she had one arm wrapped around and half hidden under the seat cushion her head was resting on.

"How's the case?" She mumbled into the cushion.

"Moving along. We talked to some witnesses, only three of whom I might consider as suspects. Grace did a lot of computer work. Rigsby twisted his ankle jumping out of a dumpster, but I think he'll be okay tomorrow."

"Get in trouble?"

"Couldn't. Wasn't anybody to get me out."

"Mmph."

"You do have the safety on that thing, right?"

Without lifting her head, she slid her hand out from under the cushion and held up her off-duty Glock. He jerked his head away from it and pursed his lips as he slid it out of her grasp.

"You should've just kept the alarm on."

"It's really loud." He chuckled down at her, realizing she had expected him to pick the locks again.

"Yeah, it is. Any piccata left?"

"All of it." She rolled her head to the side to look up at him through the strands of hair that had teased loose from her braids. "I didn't want to eat without you."

He carried her gun into the kitchen, stopping to bolt the front door and slide the chain. Carefully setting the weapon on the counter, he lifted the lid from the skillet. It was still warm. She shuffled into the kitchen and stood next to him.

"When did you make this?"

"About an hour ago. You called at six to say you'd be late. I knew you wouldn't be here much later than nine."

He turned, still holding the lid, to look down at her, wondering how in the world she had come to that conclusion. She looked so out of it, he knew he wouldn't get an intelligible answer, so he just turned her around, picked up the skillet and guided her back to the couch. She promptly lay down in exactly the same position in which he had found her but with her face turned toward him, her arms folded under her head. Pushing the plate out of the way, he sat on the coffee table alongside her and rested the skillet on the folded napkin. Eating out of it, he fed himself and Lisbon by turns until she wiggled and harrumphed, which he took as an indication that she didn't want any more. It was pretty good—almost as good as if he'd cooked it himself.

"Are you going to go upstairs to bed?"

When he got no answer, he nudged her and repeated the question. She jerked against him and harrumphed again, this time with attitude. He carried everything into the kitchen and washed up then returned with a pain pill and a glass of water.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Time to take your drugs."

"No." She sounded like a cross and belligerent child.

He set pill and water on the table and slid his hand under one of her shoulders and across to the other, gripping it and raising her upper body off the couch. Then, using his other arm, he swept her knees sideways and spun and pivoted her into a sitting position. She frowned with her eyes still closed and held out one hand. He dropped the pill onto her palm, and she popped it into her mouth. She extended the hand again and, when he put the glass in it, wrapped her fingers around it and downed the water. He set the glass on the coffee table then pulled on her elbows and half dragged her to the door.

"Wake up. You need to lock up after I leave."

"Okay, okay."

"Know what you want for breakfast tomorrow?"

"Van Pelt's coming to take me to the doctor."

He stopped in his backward movement, still holding onto her, and looked down at her still closed eyes, not even trying to hide the concern in his voice. "So soon? Why?"

"Take a look at my ribs. Wants to make sure I'm taping myself right."

"You want me to take you?"

She opened her eyes to look up at him then.

"No, I need Van Pelt."

"Oh. Right." Getting up to go downstairs was one thing. Getting dressed to leave the apartment would require another pair of hands.

"I'll see you tomorrow night then."

"No. I think I'll be okay now."

He wavered for a moment, unsure how he felt about that. He was completely caught off guard when she shook loose from his hold and rose on tiptoe and wrapped both arms around his neck. She held him like that until his arms went around her waist then gave him one soft squeeze. He nearly squeezed back but stopped short, remembering her ribs.

"Thanks, Jane." She whispered into his ear before she kissed him softly on the cheek, releasing and lowering herself away from him.

"I was glad to do it, my dear. Call me if you need me."

"I will. Good night."

He walked out into the night and stood, listening to the sound of the locks sliding into place and the keypad beeping then stood a little longer, watching the glow from behind her curtains diminish until there was nothing left of it. Then he did something he hadn't done in a long time. He drove to a hotel downtown near the CBI and took a room. Tonight he felt like sleeping in a real bed.


	8. 8: A New Appreciation

8. A NEW APPRECIATION

Well this was the workday from hell.

Grace had come in at 9:30 and reported that Lisbon's appointment had gone well. She was tired and hurting when she got home, but the doctor said she was progressing better than he had hoped. She had taken a pain pill, told Grace to be sure to tell Jane she was barricading herself in for the day and then had taken herself off to bed. It was all downhill from there.

They pretty much chased their tails for the rest of the morning and beyond. At mid-afternoon, they caught a break which led to Jane hatching a plan. Cho grudgingly went along with it, resisting the urge to confer with Lisbon. Part A of the plan blew up in their faces, but Part B went off without a hitch. What happened later in Hightower's office completely overshadowed any sense of satisfaction he had from catching the killer. Cho got the basic I-had-higher-hopes-for-you spiel. He was only in charge temporarily, so she really couldn't hold him accountable for Jane's actions. Besides, she knew Cho wasn't the one that could produce the desired results. He was in her office for about fifteen minutes before he returned to the bullpen. Lisbon was always much longer with the big boss.

"You're up." Cho headed to his desk and started the paperwork. Jane straightened his suit as he strolled to the stairs then headed up and over to Madeleine's door. She started in on him before he could utter a greeting.

She began with "What the—" and went on to weave a tapestry of expletives that nearly turned the air around her blue. She was four questions into her tirade before he realized he wasn't expected to actually answer her. He stood and took it, nodding when he thought appropriate and shaking his head accordingly, pressing his lips together in a thin line as if he were taking it seriously. After a while he tuned her out, wondering how much longer this was going to take and marveling at her stamina. It was half past eight in the evening after all. Finally she seemed to run out of steam. She was looking for some sort of contrition, and he offered it up as best as he could. She must not have been appeased because she made some strange noise of disgust and waved him away. On the bright side, he knew this couldn't help but raise Lisbon a few notches in her boss's esteem. Nevertheless, the whole thing left him with a slight case of indigestion. He'd just have a bit of tea before he left. He made himself a cup and took it to the leather couch.

"Hightower bawl you out?"

"Yes. And it took forever."

"Give you a new appreciation for Lisbon?"

"Words can't express, my friend. Words cannot express."

"Guess it was worth it then."

Jane looked up and across the desk at him, but Cho was intent on the report in front of him. In a few minutes, he signed the form, faxed it—Jane suspected to Lisbon— then made a copy and left both copies on her desk on his way out.

It was now 8:55. Jane washed out his cup and headed back to the hotel. He sat on the bed, clicking through the television channels looking for a black and white classic film. Nothing but reality shows, crime dramas with their ludicrous dialogue and some show about hunting ghosts. He pushed the power button and a quick search around his hotel room yielded a recent copy of "What's Up Sacramento" magazine. Flipping through it, he discovered that a new outdoor theatre was opening up on the riverfront in May. He thought the premier performance of "Twelfth Night" under the stars sounded very nice. He wondered if Lisbon liked Shakespeare. Of course she did. What person of taste and humor didn't?

He wondered if she had felt better after taking her pain medication. Then he wondered what she had for dinner—_if_ she had dinner. He thought about calling her to remind her to lock up, but he knew it would make him sound . . . What? Silly? Foolish? Over-protective? Lisbon knew how to make her own dinner and lock her own doors. If she fell asleep on the couch, though, she'd be hurting in the morning. _Stop it._

It had been a long day. He was tired and just needed to relax. He ran a bath and sat in it until the water started to feel cold. He dried off, put on his pajamas then lay down on the bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

Something was buzzing. How did a fly get in his room? And why couldn't it buzz right? _My phone_. His eyes shot open. The LED on the clock read 2:37. Only one person would be calling him at that time of night.

"Lisbon?"

"I can't . . . they won't—why won't they leave me alone?" She groaned pitiably.

He turned on the light and stood up looking around the room.

"Lisbon, what's wrong? Did you have a nightmare?"

"I was in the cellar." She was crying. He slid his pajama pants off and found his trousers.

"Their hands were on me, and it hurt, and then he was leaning over me—"

She sobbed. He was slipping his shoes on.

"He was wearing a mask, and the knife was dripping with blood, and I wasn't me anymore. I was you, but I was watching you, and—"

She let out an anguished wail. He was running to the elevator.

"There was so much blood!"

"Lisbon? Lisbon! Teresa! I'm coming! Just hold on. Hold on. Keep on talking to me, Sweetheart!"

This was bad. This was very bad. He thought she had bounced back, seeming to be handling everything. He should have realized it was too soon for her to be doing so well. She kept crying, and he kept talking, saying anything to try and comfort her and keep her on the phone until he could get to her. He shouldn't have left her for the night. He wasn't staying through the night with her anyway, but maybe if he had been there for just a while . . .

"Teresa, I'm pulling onto your street. Can you get to the door? Come to the door so you can let me in."

He pulled to a screeching halt in front of her apartment and barely got the key out of the ignition before he tumbled out of the car, not stopping to lock it. As he ran up the walk, he could hear the bolts being thrown back just before the door opened and she flung herself into his arms on the stoop. She leaned back to look him up and down briefly then pulled him back to her in a death grip.

"Sh-h. I'm here. It's okay. You're all right now. Everything's all right."

He needed to get her inside, but she wouldn't move her legs. He managed to lower himself enough to slide one arm behind her thighs and twist her lower half to the side as he lifted her. Carrying her inside, he reached back with one foot and pushed the door shut then turned and extended his hand away from her shoulder awkwardly to throw the two bolts. He carried her to the couch and sat down with her in his lap, relieved he'd been able to make it. If he had dropped her, he would never have heard the end of it.

With her body now turned partially away from him, her grip wasn't so tight. She did, however, keep her face buried so firmly against one side of his neck that he didn't see how she could breathe. His collar was pulled a bit tight, and he realized she had it crushed in her fist on the other side of his neck. He ran out of comforting words and decided the best thing would be to rub her back and let her cry it out. It didn't take long for the sobs to quiet to gentle weeping then to soft hiccups. Finally she pulled away from him and frowned down at his chest.

"_What_ are you _wearing_?"

"I was sleeping when you called. I had to dress in a hurry."

"Is this your pajama top?"

"Yes." She must be hysterical because now she was trying not to laugh.

"It's very . . . mature."

"What did I say about jokes like that?"

"What? I'm just saying it makes you look very . . . grown up."

"I am a grown up. But I can see why you'd be confused."

She started to snipe back at him, but instead, she just looked at him wide-eyed.

"I'm sorry I woke you up. I don't know what's wrong with me. It's not like I've never had a bad dream before."

"It was a _nightmare_, Teresa."

"I've had plenty of those, too."

"Is this the first since we found you?"

"Yes."

"Is it the first about me and . . .?"

She paused, uncertain if she should tell him. Keeping it a secret didn't seem important now. "No. I've had those before."

She was having nightmares about him and Red John. He would ask her later for how long and how often. She was frowning at his chest now, deliberating. He just looked at her, waiting for the inevitable. But it never came. No lecture. No preachy speech about the law and justice. Instead, she just laid her head over on his shoulder and played with one of the buttons on his shirt. Suddenly she felt so dear, so precious, something surged through him and he pulled her against him, squeezing her as hard as he could. She turned her face into him and yawned. He laughed and dropped a kiss on top of her head. He didn't even think about it this time.

"You think you can go back to bed now?"

"Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?"

"I wouldn't be able to lock you in or set the alarm."

"I'll give you a key, and the alarm takes sixty seconds to arm once it's set."

He paused to consider, and a boldly ludicrous thought popped into his head. Even as he dismissed it, the words tumbled out of his mouth. "How about if I just stay with you?" He held his breath.

She thought about it, chewing on her bottom lip. He was relieved that her overbite wasn't too pronounced.

"I think that would be all right."

That was that. He slid her off his lap, and walked to the door. When the chain was in place and the alarm was set, he asked if she needed anything for pain. She answered in the negative and moved toward the stairs. Comprehending she meant for him to come with her and for some reason not thinking it at all odd, he followed her, pulling up short when she stopped abruptly on the second step and turned back to him, shaking her finger just in front of his nose.

"No funny stuff."

"I could say the same to you."

She turned and started back up the stairs with a snort. "In your dreams, Jane."

Her bed linens were even nicer than the hotel's. He lay on his back and snuggled in. Lisbon had found him a pair of flannel sleep pants, and the comfort of the softness and warmth surrounding him had him nearly asleep in minutes. He felt the bed dip as she slid under the covers next to him. She turned out the lamp and rolled toward him to kiss him lightly on the cheek. Before she could pull away he brought his hand up behind her to cradle her head and hold her in place against him just a little while longer.

"How'd you French braid your hair with your hand in a cast?"

"Grace was here today."

"Mm."

When he woke up, the morning sun was heating the room through the curtains, and Lisbon's head was lying on his chest. Her ear was centered over his heart and two of her fingertips lay lightly against the side of his neck.


	9. 9: What Is Normal Anyway?

**Thanks again to all who have read and reviewed, sharing not only compliments but encouragement and insight as well. While the first eight or nine chapters of this story have been easy to write, as I looked forward, I realized I had no idea exactly where I should go with it, and it caused me so much trouble that I thought I might have to consider the untenable possibility of just giving the thing up. It was a simple story when I started it, but nothing is as it seems with these two, except for their propensity to make everything harder than it has to be. It's a very good thing, then, that I do not own them or anything connected to them. They would drive me insane. Good news is, I woke up this morning with a thought. I'm not a deep writer, so I still won't do it justice in my own opinion, but I intend to stick it out to the end and be satisfied. At the risk of redundance, thanks for your encouragement because without it, I just didn't see the point.**

9. WHAT IS NORMAL ANYWAY?

For the next three and a half weeks, they saw or at least spoke to one another every day. He never slept in her bed again, but they fell asleep on the couch twice, and sometimes he crashed there, but only if she invited him. He stayed in the CBI attic if a case went really late, but he didn't rest very well there. Some nights he opted for the hotel, but it didn't seem as nice anymore. And he always, always called her on Sunday.

There was only one rough patch. They had just finished watching "Desk Set", arguing over who was the sneakier, Katharine Hepburn or Spencer Tracy, when out of the blue he asked her about her Red John nightmares.

"I don't want to talk about it."

She looked away from him, her jaw set firm and determined.

"It might help."

"You first." He caught a glimpse of something sharp and hot in her eyes. It threw him momentarily, and he realized she hadn't been angry with him in a long time. He hadn't felt that guilty tug and the need to apologize for something that he would have done again in a heartbeat if the situation were repeated. It wasn't that her spirit was broken—far from it. She had been more animated, more lively and . . . there were a slew of other adjectives that came to mind. He frowned at his reverie. This wasn't like him. The hot and sharp thing had disappeared as quickly as it had come, and she lowered her gaze. Now she did look a little broken.

"How would it help? I know how you feel about it, and you know how I feel about it. Only one thing can make it better, and that's not likely. I don't want to fight, so I don't want to talk about it."

"I wish you could understand—"

"I _do_ understand. I just don't _agree_. Now drop it or leave."

She walked into the kitchen and gripped the edge of the sink until her knuckles turned white. He walked quietly toward her, stopping at the doorway. He wished he could promise her that everything would be all right, say he'd changed his mind and that he wouldn't do what he'd said, but she was right—it wasn't likely.

"How do you feel about Shakespeare?"

"What?" She was irritated. It was one of his favorite manipulation techniques—talking about something trite then taking you into a conversational minefield then back to the inane. Something he did for the sake of control. She wondered if he was doing it on purpose, wondered if he even knew he did it sometimes or if it was as natural to him as walking in his skin then decided she didn't care as long as they weren't talking about Red John anymore.

"Shakespeare. There's a new theatre—The Starlight—opening on the river in May. The first performance is 'Twelfth Night'. Do you think you'd want to go?"

She turned around and looked at him like he was crazy and expelled a clipped, exasperated sigh.

" . . . Okay?"

"Not a resounding yes, but I'll take it. Really, Lisbon, with such unadulterated enthusiasm and verve, it's remarkable your door is not being knocked down by potential suitors."

"You're such an idiot."

"I've decided to consider that a term of endearment."

"Well then, you're gonna _love_ my next word for you."

"'O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!'"

"Good grief," she groaned.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

A few days later he picked her up for her first day back at work. It was now the end of March, and still a bit chill at nights. Mid-winter was having trouble giving way to Spring. Her ribs still required taping, and the cast wasn't due to come off for another two weeks, so she was on restricted duty.

"Ready to go back?"

"_Egad_, yes."

"You were going a little stir crazy. Still, you've never looked more rested."

"I watched all my dvds at least twice, and I've gotten fat on omelets."

"Now that you mention it, you have filled out a bit."

"Shut up and drive, Jane."

"Yes, ma'am."

She would never tell him, but she hit the gym every day while the others were out. Two weeks later, the cast and tape came off, and a week after that the doctor pronounced her fit and released her to resume her normal activities. The next day she tackled a 180-pound runner. When she stood up, her side hurt. Jane said harsh and unpleasant words, almost accusing her of hurting herself on purpose and always pushing herself to the forefront so that everyone would know who was the best and who was the toughest and who was the boss. He was so angry he wouldn't ride back with her. At eight o'clock, he stood at her open office door and knocked on the frame, waiting for her permission to enter. She didn't turn away from her computer. He didn't know why he had said those silly, childish things. He wanted to fix this.

"How's your rib?"

"It wasn't my rib. It was a twinge in my side."

"Where your rib is."

"The doctor released me for normal activity."

"Woman, what you do isn't normal. Not for a woman your size anyway."

She sat back in her chair and looked at him. She knew he was just being protective, trying to watch out for her, but something about it just couldn't sit right with her. She didn't want someone watching out for her. She didn't need it and didn't want to be made to feel like she did. All she could see right now was that he was concerned for her, and he was sorry for how he had acted. Her look softened as she considered him.

"Jane. I can't _not_ do my job."

"How about you make Rigsby the designated tackle? Just for the next month."

"That's not how it works. You know that. Things happen fast, we warn them not to run, they always do, and we have to stop them the best we can."

Feeling forgiven for acting like such a jerk earlier, he sat down in the chair facing her across her desk.

"Jane, what's this really about?"

He went round-eyed, pushing out his bottom lip as he tapped his fingertips together, arcing his gaze around and up toward the ceiling.

"Just want you to be all right. That's all."

His eyes suddenly lowered to the papers on her desk, and his expression became one of feigned impatience. Deflecting again. He had been doing that a lot lately. There really was so much she had figured out about him. If only he knew. She suddenly wondered why he didn't. Her train of thought was nearly derailed again with his sudden turn in their conversation.

"Are you almost ready to go home?" Again, she decided to just go with it.

"In a bit. I have to finish this report then sign these requisitions." She motioned toward a stack of papers that looked to be about sixty sheets high before she turned back to her computer screen.

"Are you going to sign all of those?"

"Yep."

"And all they need is your signature?"

"Yep."

He reached across her desk and pulled the top form off the stack. Taking one of her pens, he wrote across the bottom of the page.

"Hey! You can't-!"

He held the paper up in front of her with a flourish. Her eyes went to the bottom line and settled on a flawless forgery of her signature then immediately narrowed at him.

"How long have you been doing that?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "I haven't been doing anything. I've seen you sign your name hundreds of times. It's merely a matter of paying attention."

"Are you telling me you've never forged my signature? On anything? Ever?"

"No."

"Jane."

"I have never forged your signature on anything. I have a very strong desire to live, and while you may doubt the truth of that on a day-to-day basis, forging your signature would be too far out there even for me."

She closed her eyes briefly then slid the stack across the desk at him and turned back to her computer, mumbling as she did so.

"What was that?"

"Grape. The flavor of the kool-aid. It's grape."

"You cannot seriously be likening this to drinking the kool-aid!"

"What would you call it then?"

"Succumbing to my charms?"

"I'd rather be poisoned."

She turned back to her computer, and they continued to work in silence. Pleased he'd been able to achieve the desired shift in conversation, he signed the rest of the requisition forms, surreptitiously watching her as he flipped from one page to the next. In the past weeks, he felt like he had gotten a rare glimpse of the real Teresa Lisbon. He thought he knew her, that she was easy to read, and for the most part the latter was true. But he realized that, until recently, he had always seen her filtered through professionalism, stress, irritation with everything and everyone that got in the way of doing her job. She lived behind walls and defenses, and while she was functioning at very close to one hundred percent, what she had suffered recently had pulled the filter away and brought the defenses down for the time being. And he had been the one privileged to see it. She had let him, with or without realizing, really _see her_. She was warm and forgiving, easy and intriguing, kind and funny. He had known all of this, of course, but only from a distance and through a glass darkly. Now he had gotten a very close look from a much better vantage, and he knew it should concern him, but—try as he might—he couldn't bring himself to look away.


	10. 10: Terms of Endearment

10. TERMS OF ENDEARMENT

Lisbon sat in her office at the end of a very long, very satisfying day. It was mid-May now, and she felt that her life was back to normal. She had worked determinedly to bring herself back up to physical peak, had cleared her psych evals weeks earlier with flying colors. She had lived her life by the philosophy that there was a place for everything in both her personal and professional life, and everything was in its place . . . Almost.

Shifting her eyes away from her computer screen, she looked to where Jane lay on her couch, his eyes lightly closed, body completely relaxed, a small smile on his face as if he dreamed of something fresh and innocent. She knew better.

She didn't know what was up with him lately. Every time she turned around, he was _there_, following her, watching her. His eyes would seem to drift momentarily around their surroundings but always came back to her. Even at crime scenes, his attention was divided between her movements and the matter at hand. He also touched her more for no reason, his hand at the small of her back as they walked together or resting on her arm as they spoke. He stood and sat closer, so close that she could feel his warmth at her side or back. He would lean in to whisper to her, seeming to want to conjure an intimacy that he needed for some reason. Conversely, when they rode in the car together, he rarely spoke, looking out the windows as if he were trying to memorize the passing scenery. Even then, his hand would gravitate across the console between them, nearly touching her sleeve. And he frequently requested that Cho accompany them into the field, appearing to rest easier when the three of them were together.

Her being taken had affected him as deeply as it had her, but as she was getting better, putting it farther behind her each day, he seemed to be worsening. She was beginning to wonder if maybe _he_ wasn't the one that should have been seeing the department shrink. Of course, that wouldn't be anything new. She sometimes thought his actions indicated that at the very least a good, a stiff drug protocol would have been in order.

But this. This was different. It was like he was afraid he was going to lose her. It surely wasn't in the usual sense that a person would think such a thing of another. They weren't like that. _He_ wasn't like that, and while she had to admit that recently she had felt a kind of draw to him (which she had easily and smoothly put in _its_ place), she wasn't foolish enough to believe it was because he had any kind of natural feelings for her beyond the odd friendship they had constructed coupled with her being necessary to his quest to kill Red John. Was it more like he was concerned he might . . . _misplace her?_ Like she would get covered up under mounds of paper on his desk or incorrectly shelved with his books? She had difficulty believing it would be anything more personal than that. But no, the looks he shot her way, the few times he had turned away then looked back to where she had been standing to find she was no longer there, the relief when he had finally found her with his eyes again told her it was something else. She was not qualified to wade through this, but she knew there was no way he would ever talk to _her_ about it, let alone the good doctor.

She needed to reestablish some boundaries. They had always worked for her in the past, kept her out of trouble and free from difficult involvements and entanglements. He had seen her frightened and vulnerable. They had slept in the same bed—an embarrassment she had worked weeks to overcome while he seemed to think nothing of it, exhibiting neither the guilt she would have assumed he would feel nor the awkwardness she would have counted upon. She had come to realize Jane was fiercely protective by nature, a tenacious guardian of anything he viewed as his, if only for selfish reasons. She guessed their tenuous friendship made her more his right now than anything else in his life outside his quest for vengeance. She chose to ignore the wariness itching at the edges of her consciousness that there was something more to it.

Yes, boundaries were the answer, along with the defenses she had been putting back in place. Anger, irritation and annoyance: her tried and proven anti-Jane formula along with the bickering she knew they both used as a shield against meaningful conversation. Stay away from banter. It was too flirtatious and had become more so lately.

"So, have you puzzled it out?"

She had not been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't noticed the subtle changes in his features, even though she was sure he had meant to convince her he was sleeping. Was he slipping, or was she getting better at reading him? Or maybe she just had more experience now watching him actually sleep. At any rate, she had recognized the exact instant he'd become aware of her watching him as well as the instant he had decided to call her on it.

"I'm afraid that day will never come."

He opened his eyes, and she saw the question forming there before it dropped from his lips. Thankfully, her phone rang. She wasn't sure what answer she would have given him.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

She hated these cases.

They had been called to investigate the murder of yet another bigwig. Ryan Larson was actually the son-in-law of a bigwig, a prominent long-time state senator. Larson had been found bludgeoned to death on the drive leading up to Mrs. Honoria Dunston-Carlisle's Beverly Hills home during the first big garden party of the season. At seventy-eight, she was still quite the social butterfly. She had married Mr. Carlisle fifty years ago and moved to California from her family home in Connecticut, the perfect blending of East Coast blue blood fallen upon hard times and West Coast new money. Mrs. Dunston-Carlisle stood in her solarium wringing her hands and wailing.

"How could this happen? Everything was planned so beautifully!"

"Mrs. Calisle—"

"_Dunston_-Carlisle." Yes, never forget the Dunston.

"Mrs. Dunston-Carlisle. I assure you the CBI will do everything in their power to solve Mr. Larson's murder."

Lisbon ignored Jane's mocking smile as he turned from the long table still laden with hors d'hoeuvres behind Mrs. Dunston-Carlisle and mouthed "s_uck-up_" at her. Just like she ignored his plate stacked with exotic-looking finger foods and the tell-tale bulge in his left jacket pocket. She hoped none of the household staff noticed the CBI consultant stuffing his pockets with party leftovers.

"Well that's all very well, Agent Lisbon, but what am I to do? Two months ago, several of my guests were robbed of their jewelry—_which_ has never been found and returned—and the party before that, one of the valets made off with a guest's Ferrari, and now someone is murdered _right in my drive_!"

Jane had sauntered over apparently ready to join the conversation.

"Surely, Mrs. _Dunston_-Carlisle, such events can only enhance your reputation as a hostess. You have to admit, they do lend a certain cache to your social functions . . . which would explain why you're secretly wondering just how you're going to top this."

He motioned languidly to where Ryan Larson's bagged body was being loaded into the back of an ambulance. Mrs. Dunston-Carlisle turned a brilliant shade of eggplant, and Lisbon struggled between whether to hiss angrily or laugh. Unable to give words to her indignation, Mrs. D turned and swept out the French doors and across the lawn to tell her assistant what to do with the centerpieces. Lisbon, glad of this glint of normalcy in the man next to her, swept her eyes sideways at him. He felt the mock reprimand in her gaze.

"Oh, come on. I knew it, and you knew it. How could I reasonably be expected to _not_ say anything?"

"How indeed," she mumbled dryly before she turned to look accusingly from his eyes to his plate to his pocket and back again.

"What?" he asked around a mouthful. "These are for the guys. You don't expect me to not bring them anything, do you? Being forced . . . to work out there," he moved his hand in a circular motion in the general direction of 'out there', "working over Larson's body while we have access to this wonderful food?."

She rolled her eyes as she stalked away from him in search of the next witnesses to question. And there were plenty. Plenty of the most vacuous, insipid, and just plain idiotic people she had ever encountered. None of them seemed to be able to pay attention to anything. In spite of the fact that someone had picked up a paving brick and bashed in Ryan Larson's skull less than fifty yards away, no one at the party had seen a thing. Nearly every piece of viable information they had was gleaned from the victim himself. Ryan Larson was handsome and healthy, the epitome of physical perfection except for the gaping gash that now ran along the left side of his skull, indicating the killer was probably right-handed. There were no other signs of struggle, and he had been hit from the front. He had known his murderer. And wrapped around his fingers had been a long silver chain sporting a pendant in the shape of half of a heart.

By dividing the task of conducting interviews three ways—Lisbon with Jane, Van Pelt with Rigsby and Cho on his own—they managed to wade through the guests' statements. One by one, they released them with the notice that they may want to ask them questions later. Lisbon would rather drive an ice pick into her eye.

One interview, however, stood out from the rest. Kimberly Nesbitt had proven evasive and passive aggressive, and Lisbon's interest had been piqued for those and other reasons as well. She had sat at the little lawn table across from Ms. Nesbitt, Jane lounging in his painted wrought iron chair between them back to taking in the surroundings, when the young woman had become so angry at one of Lisbon's questions that she had half risen out of her chair in a threatening manner to answer before she stormed away. As the young woman had leaned across in front of Jane, her low-cut blouse had fallen further open, revealing more of her ample cleavage. Jane leaned forward in his chair, suddenly more interested in what was in front of him than whatever was across the lawn. Lisbon had almost kicked him under the table at his seeming indiscretion when she remembered that with Patrick Jane the obvious was not the usual. She would ask him about it later.

When they returned to their temporary office at the local police station to compare notes, Lisbon remarked that she would like to ask Kimberly Nesbitt a few follow-up questions, and Jane eagerly agreed that would be a good idea. Van Pelt's repeated attempts to reach the lovely Ms. Nesbitt were unsuccessful, however, and Lisbon didn't know whether she or Jane was more disappointed to learn that there was no current home address for the young socialite.

"We could call Mrs. _Dunston_-Carlisle." He had taken to emphasizing the first half of her last name every time he mentioned her.

"Why? What could she tell us?"

"Well, Kimberly Nesbitt was at the party . . . "

"And if she was invited, Mrs. D. would have sent her an invitation."

"Exactly."

"Van Pelt?"

"On it."

Kimberly Nesbitt's invitation had gone to the home of her best friend where she was currently residing in the guest house on the property. Kimberly Nesbitt's best friend was Amy Larson, the murder victim's widow.

Bright and early the next morning, Jane and Lisbon were at the front security gate outside the Larson mansion waiting to be buzzed in. Jane wandered along the perimeter of the fence, doubling back to say he had seen Kimberly Nesbitt getting into her car wearing workout clothes and carrying a gym bag and heading away from the house, probably toward a rear service entrance on the property.

"I guess we're headed for the gym, then."

"Well, we'll have to hurry, Lisbon, she's getting away."

"The people who live around here only go to one kind of gym, Jane. Very expensive and very exclusive." She was already getting back into the SUV. Realizing she knew where she was going, he followed suit.

"What put you onto her?" Jane asked, sincerely curious.

"Actually, it was your reaction to her."

"My reaction?"

"Mm-hm. When she leaned across the table and her blouse fell open."

"Her blouse?" It was as she thought. He hadn't even noticed the cleavage.

"You were bored with the interviews until she got mad and leaned toward me and her blouse fell open, and you suddenly got interested. Knowing you're completely immune to the . . . 'charms' (said with a smirk) of a woman, I knew it had to be something to do with the case. That and the fact that she got so angry and didn't want to answer a few simple questions. Now that I know she didn't tell us she's been living with the Larsons, I'm even more interested in her."

Jane had been looking at her intently as she spoke, so she wasn't surprised by the fact that he responded but rather to which part.

"What do you mean I'm "completely _immune_ to the charms of a woman"?

"Well, . . . you know." She shrugged not taking her eyes off the road.

"No-o-o," he said shaking his head in bewilderment, "I don't. What makes you think I'm "completely immune" to women?"

"Well, you never—you don't—I've never known you to . . .," she made a sweeping motion toward him. "_You know_."

He looked down to where his hands lay loosely clasped in his lap and realized he was slowly spinning his wedding band around his ring finger.

"I wouldn't say I'm exactly _immune_," he muttered. For some reason it didn't set well with him that Lisbon could think him completely untouchable.

She took her eyes off of the road for a moment and really looked at him. He had been more like himself this morning, working the case and engaging in conversation and some mild bickering. And now, he was suddenly withdrawn and almost sulky. She didn't know how, but she had managed to either hurt or insult him or a combination of both. She was immediately contrite, even though she didn't understand.

"Jane, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. You've just never shown any _real_ interest in a woman since your . . . since you started working with the bureau. I know you have your mind on . . . other things." This was exactly not the kind of conversation she should be having with him.

"Yeah . . . other things."

She reached over and laid her hand on his left wrist, barely curving her fingertips around it. He released his hold on his ring and slid his right hand over to grasp hers and hold it in place as he turned to look out the window. These last few weeks she had retreated into herself again, walling herself behind decades-old defenses, leaving him feeling surprisingly destitute. He had missed her, and her touch felt good, warm and reassuring.

Her reflex was to pull away, but he had been there for her during those dark weeks in a way no one else could have been, so if he needed her hand for a while, she could let him borrow it. After a few minutes, without looking at her, he stroked her wrist a couple of times then released her and she brought her hand back to the steering wheel. They rode the rest of the way in silence.

When they reached the gym—or rather, the health and bio-wellness salon—Jane realized how exclusive the facility was. Lisbon's badge would get her in, but only so far, and only if she was willing to use a bit of unpleasant muscle. He decided there was an easier way.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Honestly, how did she come to be in these situations?

She had stepped to the welcome desk and briefly scanned a brochure entitled "Embrace Enhancement". From behind the counter, a perfectly symmetrical blonde, Inga by her I.D. tag, looked up with eager anticipation to inquire how she might be of assistance. Lisbon was reaching for her badge when Jane's arm snaked around her from the other side, his hand covering hers and effectively hiding her shield. She froze in the partial embrace then gave over when she heard him slide into his "slickster" voice.

"Yes . . . Inga," he read her I.D. where it rested provocatively on her own "enhancements" then flashed her a winning smile. "My lovely wife, Teresa, and I are new to the area, and she's interested in a membership at your salon. We were hoping she might be able to get a quick tour."

"Well, usually . . .?"

"Patrick." Another engaging smile.

"Patrick." She nodded and smiled back. "Usually we only give tours by appointment so one of our wellness counselors can show you the salon and tell you how our various programs work and how we can tailor a plan for your optimum success.

"Uh-huh. Inga, that sounds like just what my wife is looking for. We don't really have time for the whole introduction today. Is there any way you could possibly just let her have a look around in your workout center?" He looked the blonde beach body up and down in a way that said he regarded his wedding vows more as guidelines than anything else.

"I think I can arrange that Patrick," she purred back at him.

When Inga leaned over to retrieve a pass card from one of the bottom drawers, Jane looked down at Lisbon and winked. He turned back to listen to Inga's well-rehearsed spiel, and Lisbon let herself zone out. _"It could be worse,"_ she thought to herself. _"So far he's only called me Teresa and his wife. Not that smarmy 'my lady' he used when he pretended to try and pick up that hooker for a three-way—" _She thought back to when he had introduced her as his wife at the rehab clinic_ "—or that awful_—"

"How's that sound, Babe? You want to go back and have a look around in the women's center?"

She cringed. "That sounds great." Her voice was too high and too bright and utterly unconvincing. Good thing Inga wasn't paying any attention to her. They were halfway down the long corridor that led to the workout center when she realized Jane's arm was still wrapped around her waist, his hand resting over the clip of her badge and his thumb rubbing in small circles against her hip where it curved away from her waist. Walking along behind an undulating Inga, she discreetly swatted at his offending appendage. He simultaneously pulled her against his side and brought his thumb and forefinger together above her shield to pinch her before releasing her, and she gave him a killing glare. As they approached the double doors at the end of the hall, their guide chattering on about the benefits of spa rocks, Jane leaned over—a little too close for her comfort—and whispered into Lisbon's ear.

"Don't _you_ want to know why _I'm _interested in Kimberly Nesbitt?"

She looked up at him, her bewilderment at realizing she had not finished the case-related conversation in the SUV written plainly on her face. He carried on in a conspiratorial whisper just before she left him to pass through the doors.

"She was wearing a pendant on a chain long enough to keep it out of sight under her blouse . . . the other half of the heart."

Lisbon and Inga exited the workout room a few minutes later and Jane looked up from where he was perusing meditation literature. Lisbon was definitely harried. He looked at Inga to thank her for her help, but her glare told him the cover was blown. He shrugged at her in feigned apology and hurried after his very angry boss.

"Lisbon! Wait up! Lisbon! Slow down, woman!" He caught up with her in the parking lot and took hold of her elbow then stopped hoping she would do the same. He didn't expect her to round on him.

"Kimberly Nesbitt was argumentative—almost combative—and I couldn't get anything out of her. She was, by the way, wearing the half-heart pendant. She's extremely angry and intends to call my _superior_ to let her know _just how_ angry. Inga threatened me with security. And . . . _Babe?_ . . . Really? Seriously, Jane, do I look like the type of woman any man in his right mind would refer to as _babe_?"

He regarded her for a moment, tilting his head slowly first one way then the other, his right hand rising to cradle his chin.

"Pumpkin?"

She rolled her eyes and huffed at him before turning to walk away as fast as she could without actually breaking into a run. He followed her, hands extended, palms up.

"Muffin? . . . Sweetcakes? . . . My little gumdrop?"

"_Shut up_!" she tossed over her shoulder, trying to quicken her pace. Even as she had felt her ire building through the whole ordeal, she had felt a surge of comfort. This was familiar. This was the way they had always been together. Maybe she had been overanalyzing before, seeing things that weren't there. He had probably just needed time to reorient himself and accept that everything was all right and he could let go of whatever had been worrying him. He followed after her, slowing to not quite catch up. She realized he was hanging back but didn't want to look at him or otherwise engage him. Instead she slowed to a pace just slightly faster than a saunter.

She had been speed walking in that way she did when she was trying to get away from him, using short, choppy, angry little steps. This slower pace was much better. He wondered idly how she moved like that, sort of a combination of sway and swivel. Must be the weight of her gun. And the cuffs and phone and Taser he knew she sometimes carried. _Completely immune indeed_. She was wearing her charcoal gray jacket that stopped short of just covering her hips. Between her height and build, he was sure Lisbon had to have her slacks altered to fit her just so. Exactly what did one tell one's tailor to achieve that look? _And could you take in the rear to perfectly cup my_—.

"Jane?" She had rounded on him again, wondering why he hadn't caught up and irritated about it even though she had been too annoyed with him to want to walk with him, infuriating man that he was. She had caught him, his eyes aimed exactly where they shouldn't be. He lifted his gaze to hers and swallowed, not sure how to play this off. She turned her head barely to the side.

"Were you just . . .?" She let the question hang. Not wanting to ask it in case she was completely off base but not trusting him to walk behind her anymore, she stepped toward him, grabbed the outside of his jacket sleeve just above the elbow and pulled him alongside of her as she continued to the SUV.

She doggedly kept her face turned away from him, not wanting to see his expression—didn't want to see if he still had that look in his eyes. She didn't want _him_ to see anything either. This . . . whatever "this" was was getting out of hand. She needed to work this case, stick with the job, establish more than a semblance of normalcy. _Boundaries_, she reminded herself.

"Come on. We need to talk to Amy Larson."

She needed to be on her guard. He had enjoyed all of this too much and not in the usual "I'm-pulling-a-con-and-getting-under-Lisbon's-skin-at-the-same-time" way. His arm around her, his thumb patterning against her hip, the wink, even the way he had said her name—all had been accompanied by a warmth that was not part of his usual play. And just now, when she had turned around and caught him . . . She realized her breath had hitched. Well, she knew that look. And if she had seen it in any other man's eyes, she would have known exactly what he was thinking. The thing was, she didn't think he realized what he was doing. Jane was quietly and almost completely out of control—at least the control he usually so tightly exhibited. She didn't think mere boundaries were going to do the trick.


	11. 11: A Brutal Love

11. A BRUTAL LOVE

Amy Larson was a lovely young woman, sparkling and fragile like sugar-spun lace. She poured a cup of tea and handed it to Jane and poured another for herself before settling precariously on the edge of the delicate Louis XVI chair.

"Mrs. Larson—"

"Amy . . . please."

"Amy." Lisbon smiled quietly at her. Jane had seen this exchange many times: Lisbon gentling the angry, the frightened, the slightly obsessive and neurotic. "Tell me about your relationship with Ryan."

Ryan. Not your late husband. Not Mr. Larson. So calming, so intimate. Lisbon cared.

"He loved me. He took care of me. He promised he would, and he always did. Sometimes even . . ." She looked away, trying to compose herself before turning back to speak again. "And I loved him . . . dearly."

He almost looked at Lisbon to see if she had caught it. The hint of deception. The barely discernable tick of the left eye. Amy must have perceived something in Jane's gaze as well for she turned her head away again, dipping it in a desire to further hide herself. The strands of honey-colored hair that fell against her neck separated, and Lisbon's shift told him that she had seen what was revealed in that instant. A thin, angry red line ran around the base of Amy Larson's neck.

Lisbon moved forward in her chair, but something in Jane's body language caused her to still. She understood it was time to go.

"That's all for now, Amy," her voice still gentle even though she had just seen evidence of the brutal truth. "If it's all right, we may have a few more questions later. We'll see ourselves out, okay?"

A barely perceptible nod was taken as a dismissal, and Jane and Lisbon quietly exited the room. At the SUV, they paused before walking to their respective sides of the vehicle.

"What do you think?"

"I think we need to see if the lab got anything off of that pendant and then have Amy and Kimberly brought in."

She nodded in agreement then made her way to the driver's side, and they silently drove away from the Larson mansion.

Once both women were at the station, Cho permitted Kimberly to hope she would not be regarded as an accomplice, and Lisbon allowed Amy her delusion that the two young women were in this together. It wasn't difficult to extract the truth from them. The two had met in college and were immediately almost inseparable. Even though Kimberly had not been monogamous, Amy considered only the fact that she always came back. When they graduated, the two had been forced to separate. Amy, unable to withstand her father's stranglehold on her, had returned home to California and married the unwitting young man her father had deemed appropriate. The state senator was by party and economic opinion a liberal, but he was socially conservative. While he never used the phrase "family values" to describe himself as a politician, the multitude of press photos of the man surrounded by his loving family got the message across. All he had to do was keep his weak-willed, wayward daughter out of trouble. Kimberly Nesbitt was definitely persona non grata. While Kimberly's parents had seemed to accept their daughter's orientation, her many indiscretions were a source of embarrassment. They had kicked her out, practically disowning her.

The problems started when Ryan Larson actually fell in love with Amy. So in love, he never questioned her hesitance in intimacy. He thought it was further evidence of her modesty and delicate nature. He didn't like Nesbitt, but when she showed up three years into their marriage completely without resources, he couldn't say no to his wife, his heart, when she asked if her best friend from college could move into their guest house. He was naïve and foolish and blinded by his affection for and desire to take care of his wife. It was the greatest understatement to say catching Amy making out with Nesbitt in a bedroom at the Carlisle home had been a shock. All the disjointed pieces had fallen into place very quickly, and the heartbroken young man had turned on his heel and headed straight to where their car was parked at the bottom of the drive.

Amy had run after him, fear overtaking her. What would their friends say? What would her _father_ say? What would become of her? Had she really believed she could convince him to just let things stay the way they were? At the suggestion, he had suddenly realized the significance of the pendants they wore. His heartbreak had turned to anger, and he had told her exactly what would happen. He had grasped the chain that hung around her neck, taunting him, twirled it around his fingers and snapped it violently off of her so that she drew away from him and stumbled backwards to fall to the ground. In gentlemanly instinct, he reached for her to take her hand and help her up, apologizing for hurting her. Seeing that everything that meant anything to her was going to be taken away, her hand closed around the loosened landscape brick on which it had landed. She lifted it and swung it around in a wide arc, brutally smashing the life out of her young husband.

They arrested her, but even though repulsed by what she had done, Lisbon could not bring herself to cuff her. Rigsby escorted her out as Kimberly exited the interrogation room across the hall. An armed guard took custody of Amy even as she tried to reach for Nesbitt. When Kimberly drew away from her, Amy became hysterical and lunged toward her. The burly guard circled her waist with one arm from behind and pulled her down the hallway. By the time he got her to the elevator, her arms were outstretched, hands grasping, feet dragging on the floor looking for purchase to halt the separation, hoarse cries of "No, no, no!" echoing pathetically down the hallway. They could still hear her screams as the elevator car descended. Nesbitt, arrangements made for her temporary release against charges of obstruction, turned without a word and walked away. Everyone went back to their respective desks and couch to wait out the day.

At five thirty, Lisbon abruptly entered the bullpen announcing that she was going home and ordering everyone else to do the same. Jane swallowed his disappointment at not being invited to tag along with her, as well as the now familiar feeling of unease he had every time she was out of his sight, telling himself that his only concern was that she shouldn't be alone. He had noticed but not quite understood the effect the scene in the hallway had had on her. An hour later, he finally admitted _he_ didn't want to be alone and stood to shrug his jacket on, wondering if he should call first.


	12. 12: You Have to Break a Lot of Eggs

12. YOU HAVE TO BREAK A LOT OF EGGS (To Make an Omelet)

She had left work at the uncharacteristically early time to get away; from the building, from the case, from him. Staring at her computer screen for thirty minutes had yielded no peace of mind over anything she had been through in the last two days, least of all Jane's behavior. As they had all stood watching Amy Larson being dragged away from the only love she wanted, Lisbon had felt a tug on her jacket. She looked down to find the fabric caught between Jane's thumb and crooked forefinger, a look she could only describe as woebegone heavy on his face. He seemed not to notice as she gently disengaged his fingers. Later, when she had announced that she was leaving, giving him no invitation to join or follow her, his face had left her so shaken she had to lean against the wall on the elevator once the door closed. She was too careful to throw around a word as strong as "obsessed", but the expression Jane had worn when she left him behind was the same one she had seen on his face when Minelli had taken the Red John case from them.

Too late she realized that she probably wouldn't be alone for long. When the doorbell rang, she only had time to grab the long robe and slide it on over the pale blue tank top and sleep shorts she had changed into. She considered not answering the door, but knew he wouldn't leave until he had at least seen her.

He rang the bell three times before he heard the deadbolts spin and slide and the chain come off. She opened the door but stood blocking his entrance, one hand on her hip, the other curled around the door's edge just above her head. He took in what she was wearing: the robe, tank top, sleep shorts and the tiny white socks she liked to wear around the house. The hand at her hip slid up and over to hold the robe closed just above her waist. There was no sign of welcome on her face.

"What do you want, Jane?"

"It was a difficult case. I wanted to make sure you're all right." He considered for a moment. "And I could use the company."

He was right. It had been difficult, and he didn't know the half of it. She thought about Amy and Kimberly and Ryan—the deceit, the broken faith, the sure and certain pain and possible destruction that comes with loving unwisely. It had suffocated her—the idea that one person could feel such _need_ for another, dangerous and deadly need that had left Amy Larson psychologically shattered and her husband dead. Love had gone wrong, as it so often did, and had left no one standing in its aftermath. It may leave something to be desired, but she preferred her way—a life with no attachments, no regrets.

She looked him up and down. Something tickled at the back of her consciousness. Something she should realize, something of which she should beware. She felt confused and wary, but all she saw was how despondent he looked. Her hand on the edge of the door tightened then loosened then tightened again, finally sliding down as she pulled the door open further.

"Come in then," she said as she turned her back on him, leaving him to shut the door behind him. By the time he turned around, she had taken a seat, hunkering down in one corner of the couch. He sat with her, not near but close enough that she was barely within his reach. Close but not too close, as was their pattern.

"How are you feeling?"

It was the first question the bureau shrink had asked her after she was rescued. She never understood why how she _felt_ was so important. She suspected it was a marker for others to watch, to gauge. She closed her eyes and raised her hands to her forehead, pushing her fingers back through her hair to grasp and hold at the back of her neck.

"I'm feeling tired. I'm feeling like today sucked. I'm feeling like I want to be alone. I'm feeling like I don't want to talk about how I'm feeling."

Her tone was close to hateful, and he was suddenly angry. This wasn't what he had come for.

"Why are you being such a smartass?"

Her eyes jerked open and glittered in anger then narrowed. He never talked to her like that. No one did.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not after anything. I came over to see if you were all right, and I didn't want to be alone."

There was something she couldn't like in what he said, but her anger was somewhat defused by his honesty and the something close to vulnerability she heard in his voice. That combination was something she recognized. It was something that could get you into trouble.

"_What do you want, Jane?_" She repeated the question, letting him know in no uncertain terms that she wasn't interested in a fishing expedition. She wanted the whole truth, and not just about why he was there. She wanted to know what he had been about for the past few weeks. Did he even know?

"Before . . . After . . . When you came home from the hospital, you . . . things were different. _You_ were different. You weren't the job or the badge or the super-cop. We talked, really talked for the first time. I liked it. I liked seeing the real you. I liked spending time with you like that—without the stress and the irritation and the anger. I liked cooking for you and watching movies with you. I liked not feeling like I had to apologize all of the time. I could do something for you, give something back to you. You weren't all sharp edges and bite. Then you put the walls back up and everything went back to the way it was. What happened, Lisbon? Where did you go?"

She had risen from the couch and walked away toward the stairs as he spoke, not wanting to be so close to him or look at him. Why was this about her? She wasn't sure what she had expected, but it wasn't this—hadn't expected him to say such things. She didn't like him like this, weak and exposed and pleading. Like it was possible for her to hurt him, almost like she was casting off a lover. And who did he think he was? _This? From him?_ She wanted to be angry, but she couldn't work herself up to it. He would never leave if she didn't talk, but how to start?

"I was going through a bad time, and you helped me. But I got over it, and I didn't need—"

She knew he knew what she was going to say, but hearing the words would hurt him. She didn't want to do that, and—uncomfortably—she knew it wasn't true anyway. Her shoulders sagged, and she sighed.

"I can't be what you think you want. I'm not that girl, Jane."

He stood and turned to look at her but didn't move to close the distance between them.

"Yes, you are, Lisbon. You're that laughing, silly, teasing, sweetly funny girl. Or you were before . . . everything. I know you are because I've caught glimpses of her over the years. But for those few weeks she was out in full force. Don't get me wrong—I like tough-as-nails Lisbon. I like your stability and your good sense. I like your honesty, and your sarcasm and even your snark within reason. And your flawlessly executed tackle is a thing of beauty, not to mention incredibly hot, but you can't shut her out and say she's not a part of you anymore than you can cut off an arm or refuse to talk. Why would you do that? To spite life? To spite _me_?"

She knew there was much more, that he didn't even realize how deeply whatever was going on went, but this was bad enough. She should stay calm and try to talk him through this, but he had gone too far, come too close, and now her anger spiked at his audacity.

"Yes, Jane. Everything I am is utterly, completely, one hundred percent to spite _you_. Are we done with me now? Can we talk about you? Because I would sure as hell like to know who you're trying to spite, you hypocrite."

"You can't possibly be comparing—"

"Of course, not, Jane. What would I know about pain and loss and grief and rage? What would I know about wanting somebody to pay? What would I know since I was twelve years old? What would I know about facing every single stinking problem and every single stinking fear completely alone? What would I know about wanting it to stop? About wanting it to just be over? But somebody's got to keep going, Jane. Somebody's got to keep pushing. Somebody's got to keep doing what's right. And that somebody's me. Because _somehow_, Jane, _somehow_ I never got invited to that special club where I get to say enough is enough and now it's time for me to _get mine!_"

She turned her back on him, shuddering with angry hurt, her arms wrapped tight around her, fingertips digging into her sides, mad at him for making her say those things. She was supposed to help him find control, not lose her own. She didn't want him to speak. If he dared to try to analyze her or comfort her or _read_ her, she would do him bodily harm.

"Remind me to never ask you how you're feeling again."

He realized he had probably just taken an incredible risk. He felt off and knew he wasn't handling this very well. If this went wrong, he could expect to get tossed out at the very least, and he did not want that. He wouldn't go. He would refuse to leave her. He needed to stay here, right here, with her. He knew he should wonder over the need to be near her, to be able to see her all of the time, but he couldn't seem to think his way out of this fog, this thick _stuff_ that was all bound up in his head with her lately. It was getting harder for him to breathe, and he knew he needed to calm down. _She's here, right here in front of me, and she's all right._

He focused on her back, on the slight movements of her fingers where they flexed against her ribs. He watched her as she evaluated the situation and then reevaluated. Her body language was surprisingly difficult to read. Finally, her arms relaxed their hold and dropped to her sides. She needed to get them back on track. If she could just get them back to a safe place—teasing, bickering, even bantering if it would work. She decided in for a penny, in for a pound and said the most outrageous thing she could think of.

"So . . . you think the tackle is hot."

She could feel him relax behind her. Even though she had no clue what she was doing, she guessed she must have said something close to the right thing.

"Very."

"And you like it that I'm sensible?"

"Now _that_ I'm a little embarrassed about."

She looked straight ahead, still facing away from him. She brought one hand up and ran her fingers through her hair from forehead to crown, resting her hand on top of her head for a moment before it dropped back to her side and she turned halfway toward him. She threw out something easier, and he was able to follow her lead and go along with it.

"You know, I haven't eaten since—"

"You didn't have lunch."

"I didn't?" She frowned, trying to remember.

"You didn't."

This felt better. Safer. She turned to look past him into the kitchen, scrunching her nose. "I could really go for an omelet."

"Do you have the makings?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I'd have to check."

"You don't know?"

She shrugged again. "My personal shopper quit. He wasn't very reliable."

"Maybe he thought his contract was up."

"He cooked AND shopped. We had an understanding."

She moved toward the kitchen, and as she passed him, he suddenly reached out and grabbed her hand. Her momentum caused her to coil back toward him, and he gave a tug meaning to pull her into a friendly hug. But as his arms circled around her, they inadvertently moved under the robe, and when she wrapped her arms around his neck in a friendly response that caused her tank top to ride up, his hands came into contact with the smooth skin at her waist.

It had been so long since he touched a woman, so long since he even thought about it, and so long thinking he would never do so again that touching Lisbon was like the first time. All thought actually left his head, and everything became pure sensation. Her skin was soft beneath his hands, her hair was silken against his cheek, and her body was warm and pliant everywhere it touched his. She smelled of citrus and mint, and it was more instinct than wondering that made him dip his head to nuzzle her neck and see with a flick of his tongue if she tasted of the same. His hands, again without thought, had moved unhindered under her shirt up her bare back, but when the first thought to actually pass through his head was the memory of Lisbon walking in front of him as they left the salon, one hand shifted direction. Just as his fingertips teased past the waistband at the back of her shorts, she reached back and stilled his hand, jolting him to awareness.

He realized his breathing was ragged and shallow, and try as he might he couldn't seem to control it. He knew he should pull away, but between his embarrassment and his just plain not wanting to, he couldn't seem to control that either. As his head cleared, he realized he would have to let go sooner rather than later, but he didn't think he could bear to see the anger or bewilderment or fear that he knew she was surely feeling. Lisbon was having trouble keeping her own thoughts clear now—this felt too good. Again she thought if she could just defuse this . . . situation.

"Is 'omelet' code for something else in man-speak? 'Cause I was talking about the kind you make with eggs in a skillet? . . . In the kitchen?"

There she was . . . that girl again. The one he could rely on to be light and easy and make everything make sense. His chuckle came out almost like a growl, low and breathy against her neck, and against her will she shivered and melded into him. When she spoke next her voice was not so steady.

"Jane?"

"Just . . . Please, just give me a minute." He very slowly, agonizingly slowly, gave her up, seemingly an inch at a time, finally bringing his hands to her waist and stepping away. His eyes were closed, and he realized they had been the whole time. He, slowly again, opened one of them to peer somewhat fearfully at her.

Again, he surprised her. She expected to see something like the look he'd worn outside the salon—that suggestive gleam, a mixture of curiosity and lust. But the sheepish little boy in front of her, looking for the world like he'd just knocked a prized vase off of a table pulled a bubbling laugh out of her. Both eyes snapped open at her, and he pressed his lips into a thin, annoyed line.

"I know I'm probably out of practice, but it couldn't have been that bad."

"Oh it wasn't bad. Wasn't bad at all." She walked away, and his hands fell from her waist. Without thinking and under the influence of the misapprehension that they were back in safe and friendly territory, reverting back to that uninhibited girl he had missed, she turned and winked at him over her shoulder. Too late she realized her error for he stepped to her and grabbed her wrist, pulling her back to him fiercely, his hands clutching her upper arms and holding her to him so tightly that she had to stand on her toes in his grasp. Her startled eyes looked up, held fast by his heated ones.

"Don't taunt me, Teresa." His voice was low and almost menacing. She swallowed and nodded, lips parting, unable to speak around her own now shallow breathing. Despite her compliance, he did not release her. His gaze lowered to her mouth as hers did to his. He leaned to her, unable to hold himself away from her until that last fraction of an inch. He watched her with hooded eyes, and when she finally closed hers in surrender, he teased her bottom lip gently with his teeth and pulled her to him before slowly taking her mouth fully with his own.

She shouldn't let him do this, shouldn't have given in, but she couldn't seem to do whatever she needed to make him stop. Instead, she moaned, high and soft into him, and his hands slid down her sides and around her waist as her palms smoothed upwards against his chest to rest on his shoulders. As always, moving in sync, they shifted and tilted, searching for the deeper kiss, the sweeter angle. One of his hands moved up her back and pulled her against him, crushing her breasts against his chest, and he gave an answering moan. His other hand shifted at her waist but hovered there until she reached back and this time guided it down and over the swell of her backside then pushed it into the soft curve of her flesh, encouraging him to touch her on his own. When he took the hint and grabbed hold of her pulling her against him, she twisted her hips, grinding into him hard. He groaned so loudly that it startled him into a momentary pause, but he recovered almost instantly, sliding his hand under her and lifting her so that her legs could circle around him. He lifted her a few inches then let her slide down against him. The friction was so tantalizing, he repeated it, and then again.

He suddenly realized what he was doing and, embarrassingly, what he was about to do. Murmuring a mantra of apology, he slid her down onto the couch, apologized once more . . . and fled.


	13. 13: What Fools These Mortals Be

13. WHAT FOOLS THESE MORTALS BE

(A Midsummer Night's Dream: Act 3, Scene 2)

She had turned off the lamp as soon as he bolted, feeling less exposed and vulnerable in the dark. She scrubbed her hands down over her face and let loose a shuddering sigh. Had they really been in her living room only a few minutes before . . . _humping each other?_

She had to think. If she couldn't make sense of this, there was no way they could continue working together, let alone continue . . . She didn't know how to finish that thought, didn't know how she _wanted_ to finish it. She needed to think about what was going on with Jane and how to help him. She wasn't being selfless, putting him first. It was just easier not to think about what was going on in her own head.

As far as she knew, people at the CBI and a few hotel and motel clerks around town were Jane's only acquaintances these days. Beyond that, also as far as she knew, he was closer to her than anyone else. Not just closer . . . He had always been more _focused_ on her than anyone else. He teased her to the point of torment sometimes then tried to protect her from everyone else, when she would let him. He angered her and worried over her when she was sad. When she had been at her lowest, he had comforted and helped her when no one else could, keeping her team on point and believing in her when one of her oldest friends suspected her of murder. He cheered her when no one else could and had done everything he could to insert himself in that space, the no-man's-land she kept between herself and everyone around her.

She realized that thinking about Jane's feelings was part and parcel of thinking about her own. Somehow in working together as much as working _against_ one another, in the flow and the push and pull of their relationship, they had grown close and become important to one another. It made her feel good to think it—to think that she wasn't quite as alone as she had believed herself to be and that Jane wasn't so alone either. But things had shifted when she came home from the hospital.

No, she knew it was before that. Before the hospital even. Cho had gone over every moment of what had happened during their search for her. Jane had been the one to go to her apartment, had been the one to discover what had happened. If they had waited until she didn't come in on Monday . . . That was something else she had never wanted to think about. Jane had also used every ounce of pull he had to get Hightower to let them stay on the case instead of handing it over to Missing Persons. Cho didn't know what had passed between the two of them, but he'd told her Hightower was badly shaken after the exchange. He hadn't been able to sleep, hadn't hardly eaten during the case. It had been his idea to check her computer, and when the team had come for her he had adamantly refused to stay behind.

After that it was the hospital. He came only at night when everyone else was gone and stayed until just before anyone might be expected to come. Why never during the day, and why never when others were there? She knew he had wanted to keep her safe and didn't want her to be alone, but again there seemed to be more to it. It was as if he had wanted her to himself, even if she were only sleeping.

Then she had come home from the hospital, and although she had never expected it, he suddenly showed up one morning. She knew Van Pelt was beside herself with not knowing what to do to help her, to draw her out. She wanted to be all right, but she just didn't know how, like she had forgotten and was waiting to remember. Then Jane had brought her donuts and Van Pelt had abandoned them to what turned out to be a few days of mutual lunacy and two-person group therapy. They had eaten meals together that Jane cooked with food he bought, never allowing her to pay him back. They had comforted one another in both silence and conversation. He came over every day for a while until she was able to take care of herself, then still came nearly every day and called her when he couldn't make it. And if she invited him over, the answer was never, ever no. Early on he had started kissing her, just a peck on the cheek or dropped feather light on her head. They had eventually gotten so close that each missed the other when they were apart.

Their relationship had progressed like a courtship, blooming through stages of friendship and attraction and emotional attachment. Under other circumstances, what had just happened and what had been happening with him for the past few days—the lingering looks and touches and finally the blatant desire—would have been part of that progression.

But they weren't like that. Admittedly, she found him attractive, and he flirted with her to distraction, but it was all harmless, meaningless. And then tonight . . . she shivered and forced her lungs to take in a deep breath. It didn't matter how they _were_, they had just almost had sex in her living room. Jane—tightly wound, permanently celibate, never looked at a woman with that look Jane—had had his hands on her skin, his lips, his tongue . . . She had to stop thinking about it. Apparently she was more susceptible to him than she had ever thought or ever believed possible. But _Jane_? She couldn't come to grips with Jane being susceptible to anyone, let alone her. But it was specific to her, like his near obsession with seeing her, knowing where she was all of the time. She hadn't missed that look of near panic in his eyes when he momentarily lost sight of her. Before they started spending so much time together, before the hospital, whatever was happening with him had started that night when she had been taken and harmed so brutally.

She closed her eyes and thought about that night—walking into her apartment and feeling the cold air blow across her face, realizing the significance of the sensation too late as rough hands grabbed her and tried to force her to the door, her legs sagging, her body crumpling into dead weight to resist being taken. She had managed to pull away, and they had thrown themselves after her, pushing over lamps and bookcases in their attempt to bring her down. Finally they had both gotten hold of her, and then they started beating her. She had gone down, they had kicked her. One of them had drawn a knife, and her hand had caught it on the down thrust. Her skin was sliced through, and she could feel the blood, warm and sticky. The other one had sworn, commanded the knife be put away. A car alarm went off in the distance, and there was muttered cursing, and they had half carried, half dragged her toward the door. She had tried to grasp something, anything to slow the inevitable. As her torso passed through the doorway, her forearm banged against the frame, allowing her to slide her hand to it and take hold. She had held on with all her strength, but it had not been enough.

Then another image passed into her head—one she could only imagine—of Jane walking into her living room, standing there looking around, registering everything in a matter of seconds before he called it in directly to Cho. The scene must have been unsettling to say the least: the overturned furniture, sign of violent struggle, her blood on the wall—

Her eyes shot open as a curious though took hold. It would explain his overprotectiveness, his need to rescue her and then to care for her, saving her from her pain, her aloneness, her nightmares. She thought back to other more recent things: Jane riding in the car watching out the window, taking in their surroundings every time they were outside, his requests for Cho to go with them when they were going to be out a long time. She should have realized sooner. Nearly any cop would have taken the same protective measures.

If he associated her blood on the wall in this case with—she couldn't bring herself to say the name, even in her head—it would account for the obsession with her safety, perhaps, but not the other. There had to have been something there before, something untapped deep beneath the surface . . . in both of them.

She lifted her right hand and lightly touched her lips, still slightly swollen from his bruising kiss, remembering the taste of him. She could feel his hands on her bare back under her shirt, stroking deep into her flesh, his hand shifting and moving down over her, pulling her into him.

She smiled in the dark. She had _enjoyed_ it. She shivered with the realization. And he was right. She had been that girl with him. Her kidnappers had broken everything down except her will to fight and live. Everything in her world had been shaken out of place and the spiky exterior that, for years, had been her protection against everything from slights on the job to unwanted male attention had fallen away and she had been the way she used to be—the way she would be if so many things had never happened. She had been that way with _him_, and she knew she could never be that girl with anyone else. _I'm in love with him_.

It was a quiet epiphany. She drew the words out slowly in her mind, testing them, making certain they were so, and certain she was. And while this was the kind of knowledge, the sort of revelation that should leave her upset and angry and wanting to put her fist through something, all she could do was sit on her stupid couch in the stupid dark and grin like an idiot. Even if the man she was in love with was a near raving lunatic, damaged as hell, with two of the worst cases of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder ever suffered by a human being.

She smiled at the thought of being able to actually think about loving him. It felt good—such a relief after pushing it away for so long. She didn't want to think about how long—no need to embarrass herself. Then she smiled at the thought that she had figured it out before he did. Yes, he believed he was beyond repair, but she found she really didn't want to fix him. Help him and keep him from doing something rash and dangerous, certainly, but she kind of liked him the way he was—bizarre and impulsive and unpredictable and a little dangerous. She knew that no other man could bring out in her the things that he did. And though she would never tell him, she liked it that he was the smartest person in the room. The fact that he was quite probably the most handsome man she had ever seen in person was just icing.

There was a lot more to think about, certainly, and most of it quite serious, even deadly. And thinking it through to any possible solution would fall to her. She knew which of them would be the most rational about it. But there was some time—she knew he wouldn't be in tomorrow. She finally stood up from the couch, walked to the door, put on all the locks and set the alarm before walking up the stairs to lie in bed, relive a few sweet moments and drift into a remarkably peaceful sleep.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

_What was he thinking?_ He had gone there to make sure she was all right, to give her some company if she needed it, and he had just . . .

How was he ever going to face her again? What was wrong with him? What had been wrong for the past few weeks? He was looking at her, watching her, couldn't bear to be away from her. Even after what had just happened, he couldn't bring himself to drive away. He sat with both hands clenching the steering wheel, peering at her living room window. The light went out. Was she going to bed? He hoped she wouldn't just sit in the dark beating herself up. Why should she? She hadn't done anything wrong. It had been him—all him.

He laid his head down on the steering wheel and groaned when he realized he could still smell her on him. He resolutely turned on the ignition, slammed the car into gear and drove away, his breathing becoming more ragged and wearying as he moved farther away from her. He was relieved when he finally made it to the hotel. He could break down in the privacy of his room and try to think through what was going on in the white, swirling, foggy mess his mind had become.

He gave a less than half-hearted wave to the night clerk and took the elevator upstairs. His thought was to simply collapse on the bed, but he was just delusional enough to believe he would rest better in his pajamas. He slid on the bottoms but couldn't bring himself to wear the top. He held it crumpled in his hands.

"_I'm just saying it makes you look very . . . grown up."_

She had seemed so youthful, he'd almost felt like he was robbing the cradle.

The thought startled him. That was months ago. He hadn't felt like this then. He knew he didn't. He didn't even know what _this_ was, but it certainly wasn't _that_. Not then. Gah, he wasn't even making sense.

He flung the pajama top aside and lay down on the bed, rolling to his side to turn off the light. Images of Lisbon floated through his mind. He rolled back to his side and turned the lamp back on. Lying in the dark would not do. He was so tired. Maybe if he closed his eyes he would at least doze through the night. But thoughts of Lisbon broke in then just as readily as they had in the darkness.

This was very bad. He didn't know what was going on with his head, but he knew he needed to figure it out before he saw her again. And he might as well face the fact right now that wouldn't be tomorrow. Tomorrow would be Friday, they had no case and he could call Cho to tell him he wouldn't be in. It was the coward's way out, but it couldn't be helped. Come Monday he would go back in, his resolve and dignity back in place. She would want to talk, and he would let her and agree that it shouldn't have happened and would never happen again.

He felt a little saddened at that. He sat on the edge of the bed leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, hands rifling through his hair. He kept wondering why he had grabbed her, why he had held her, kissed her, touched her.

He was living for one thing and one thing only. And nothing—_nothing_ would make him deviate from the course he had chosen.


	14. 14: A Madness Most Discreet

**I seem to have gotten caught up in the spirit of Shakespeare during this story. Oh, well.**

**Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs.**

**Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes,**

**Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears.**

**What is it else? . . . **

14. A MADNESS MOST DISCREET (Romeo and Juliet: Act I, Scene 1)

She hadn't heard from him in three days.

She understood about Friday. Goodness knows she hadn't been looking forward to the day after the night before either—what there had been of it anyway. They had both needed time. The day had passed slowly and uneventfully. Hightower had asked her three times if she had heard from Jane, and each time she had been relieved to say no. Her boss assumed she was trying to reach him, and she let her do so. Hightower didn't need to know everything, and if they didn't need him for a case, what did it matter? She knew he was most likely still in town, probably at the hotel he stayed at from time to time. She was reasonably sure he wouldn't go to his house. It was too far away from her, and any guilt he might feel would keep him from haunting the place where he had lived with his wife. Satisfied she knew where he most likely was, she was glad to not have to worry on that score.

She missed him—missed the sound of his voice and the rhythm of his movement in her kitchen. She missed arguing with him about whether Ingrid Bergman or Cary Grant was right in the tug-of-war they played at and both nearly lost in the old movie she had watched on Saturday. She had sat patiently through it then taken a hot bath before she went to bed knowing she would probably hear from him in some way or another the next day. It was Sunday after all.

But Sunday had come and nearly gone without a word. It hurt, but she knew he was hurting, too—tangling himself up in worry and confusion. When it grew quite late in the day, she decided to text him.

_Safe._

She knew he hadn't forgotten her, knew he was most likely beating himself up over what had happened. She wondered if he would figure it out or if his mind was so clouded that he would miss it completely. She hoped he wouldn't be stupid about it, willing to pass up something that could be so very good for both of them if they were only willing to merely capitulate.

There would be certain non-negotiables. She had never been able to accept his propensity for lying, whether about his outlandish schemes or Red John. She was better at spotting the lies now, but that didn't make her less angry over them or less wary of him. That would have to stop. For the most part, she trusted his heart, but if she couldn't trust his words, if he intentionally deceived her whether with an outright falsehood or by simple omission, then she could never be completely certain of him. Contrary to what he and others thought they knew of her, she was not so deep in denial that she didn't realize the importance of this. For her, that uncertainty would be like not being able to depend on the ground beneath her feet.

And he would have to talk to her. It had always hurt her when he shut himself away, unable even to allow himself the comfort of knowing someone cared about him. She could not bear to love him and not be able to give him whatever comfort she may be able to offer. The heartache would be too great.

Beyond that she was worried for him. She had seen how out of focus he was. His powers of observation and ability to seemingly look into people's minds were still keen, but his refusal or inability to make the connections regarding his feelings for her in his _own_ mind was causing occasional, small glitches in the rest of his thinking, as if misfires in the back of his mind were causing the same in the forefront. She suspected Cho had noticed as well, and Grace had seemed to puzzle over it a couple of times but had undoubtedly dismissed it as teasing on his part or further evidence of the downward spiral the team seemed to accept without question. She was able to read him more now, and while under their usual circumstances that would make her happy, it now served only as further proof of his lapse. Knowing his objective, his unapologetic goal, this was a dangerous thing. For his success but more for his safety, he had to be at his best. It was obvious to her that Jane was off his game.

Fortunately for him, fortunately for them both, she wasn't.

He read her text and smiled, relieved and more at ease in his mind as he flipped his phone shut. His not calling her on Sunday had certainly not been due to not thinking about her. On the contrary, he had thought of little else. Whatever they were, if they could still be friends, or if they went back to being friendly colleagues, he really didn't deserve her. He would go back in and face her. She was certainly making it easy for him. She hadn't called him all weekend to see where or how he was, not wanting to cause any more drama than was already in the mix. It didn't seem like she bore him any ill will. And the text made him feel less embarrassed. She was dear and wise and warm . . . and that's the way it had been all weekend. He would start to extol the virtues of Lisbon, and before he knew it his mouth was tasting her skin and his hand was straining against the memory of touching her and every inch of her sliding against every inch—

Maybe he shouldn't go in until Tuesday.

He was being ridiculous. They were adults. They were friends and colleagues. They had known each other for years. These things happened. He had stopped it before it went too far. Lisbon would say it was a mistake and that they should pretend it never happened. He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. If he could just stop remembering the _feeling_ . . . They were _friends_. And these things didn't happen to _him_. They _couldn't_ happen to him. At least he hoped they were still friends. And why had it happened? Except for the very vivid feelings of sensation, his thoughts of Lisbon swirled and blurred in his mind. Periodically something would rise to the surface in mock partial clarity. Her eyes mostly—warm and laughing, curious and interested, angry and questioning. What was she looking for, he wondered, that she knew enough to be angry without knowing all? What clues had she picked up on that were leading her? What was she seeing when she looked at him like that? He didn't want to think about it. He would rather not think of her at all right now.

He had chosen to stay at the hotel. He didn't want to go to the house, and he couldn't go to the CBI—even the attic would be no kind of sanctuary. The only other place he had stayed in town was her apartment. Maybe he should consider getting a place of his own.

It sounded lonely. He missed her. It wasn't just what had happened Thursday night. It was all of it. Everything about her. He had watched "Indiscreet" on the classic movie channel the night before, and he could imagine her sitting next to him and sighing every time Cary Grant appeared on the screen, shaking her head at Ingrid Bergman for risking losing him, reaching across him to get some popcorn, falling asleep with her head almost touching his shoulder.

Pathetic. That's what he was. He was a sucker when it came to love. He'd been the same way with . . .

His musings came to a grinding halt, and his head emptied of all thought except for the small bit that knew what he had been about to put to words, if only in his mind, could not possibly be true. He realized his movements had stilled completely and his breath was quiet and shallow as if he were in hiding, afraid to be found out. He shouldn't even dare think such a thing. But even though the words had not fully formed, he knew the thought was in his mind, and he despaired to realize the feeling was in his heart as well. He had no right to commit such a betrayal against his past or aspire to anything in his future. He had chosen his course, and he would hold to it. He had something he had to do. Something he _would_ do, no matter what. Nothing could get in the way. There _was nothing else_.

Except that there was. How had he missed this? He closed his eyes and let forbidden feelings and images wash over him. When she was taken, after he had called Cho, he had barely been able to contain the wail of anguish the sight of her blood on the wall had threatened to tear from him. Over the next few days, fear had choked him until he was unable to eat, and nightmares of her lying hacked and bloody had filled him with such terror that he was afraid of sleep. Then she had been found, and he had not trusted himself to go near her, too close to weeping with relief that went so deep he thought if he gave into it, it would tear him in two. In the hospital, he had sat and stared at her in the faint light as she slept as if she might be taken from him again if he closed his eyes or looked away. After she had gone home, only away from him two days, he had been unable to withstand the pull that brought him to her door and made it impossible for him to leave her for more than a few hours at a time. He had talked, and she had listened; he had cooked, and she had eaten; he had touched her, and she had let him. She had teased him and needed him and beguiled him. Of everything that he felt concerning her, he was surprised there was no guilt, as if it had no place where she was loved. She had given him something sweet and precious, and he knew he would do anything, give anything if he could just—

His anger flared at her suddenly and irrationally, as if she had somehow intentionally brought him to this pass, seduced him so that she might rob him of his revenge. The thought was dismissed as quickly as it had come, but another more fearsome one took its place. There were few things left that caused him dread—everything worthy of it had been taken from him. Now it washed over him, nearly robbing him of breath, forcing him to consider what might happen to her if it were found out. He couldn't bear thinking of it, but that part of his mind that was slightly unhinged and altogether rightly paranoid had to face the possibility that his feelings for her posed more of a threat to her life than to his objective.

Even if there were a way, even if she could be safe, it couldn't happen. He could never expect, never hope for her to return his feelings. She knew the same things he knew. She knew what he was and what he was about. She wouldn't want to be saddled with a lose-lose proposition like him.

He sat in the chair in his hotel room and thought of nothing as the darkness gathered around him. He tried to watch a movie but couldn't concentrate. He took a hot bath, but it brought him no comfort. And when he finally laid his head down on the pillow knowing that he only slept well and deeply when she was near and that he would never have the privilege again of having her so, he had to face the realization that in spite of his guilt and regret, in spite of his self-hatred and bitterness, in spite of his bloodlust for vengeful murder, until now, he had never known exactly what it was to be a completely, utterly lost cause.


	15. 15: Come Out, Come Out Wherever You Are

15. COME OUT, COME OUT WHEREVER YOU ARE

He lay on his makeshift bed in the attic dozing fitfully after his restless weekend. He had come in early to avoid running into anyone. Running into _her_. He parked in his usual space, and he knew she would be looking for his car and would know he was there. If she needed him, she could come and get him. There was no reason to willingly step into the lions' den.

But by ten o'clock, he was tired of waiting. Even with no case, he had thought she would come up for a "We-have-to-talk" talk. That's the headlong way she always approached him when something was off. He thought about it and realized that wasn't exactly the case anymore. That may be the way Agent Lisbon did things, but it wasn't Teresa's way as he had come to know her. She would take it easy, let him come to her when he was ready. He smiled up at the ceiling.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

She felt him in her doorway before she saw him. She knew he was looking at her, waiting for her to look up and notice him and be either pleased or apprehensive now that he had come.

"Decide to finally join the rest of us?" She kept her eyes on the paper in front of her. He'd come this far. Nothing wrong with making him work for it every now and then, and she intended to make him work for every inch today.

"I was afraid I missed the donut run."

"You're the only one who runs for donuts." She looked up at him now, her head tilted back slightly so she could look down her nose at him. "As a matter of fact, I think donuts are the only thing you _do_ run for."

He smiled and slid through the doorway and into the chair across the desk from her.

"If you remember correctly, I've run for pizza a time or two."

"Ah, yes. The pizza run of '09."

Jane gave her his most beguiling smile—the one that always drew one from her in answer, but it was wasted when she looked back down at the file in front of her.

"Is there something you want, Jane?"

He was sure she didn't mean it the way it sounded—she wasn't so designing as that. But something about her light and easy tone coupled with those words sent a jolt through him, and his smile almost faltered.

"Just to see your lovely face, m'dear."

"Well, you've seen it. How about you go find some work to do now?"

"Meh, I don't know. I'm enjoying myself right here."

"Meh, get your butt out of my office and earn your keep."

"Lisbon—"

She looked back at him, her expression serious but not guarded or unpleasant.

"Not here, Jane. Not now. How about we have some lunch later?"

He considered for a moment. She had obviously thought out how this would all go. He decided to take it easy on himself and let her lead. He had had a rough three days.

"Oh, all right," he said, stroking his hands up and down the front of his vest. "If you insist. But don't make me wait too long. I'm already feeling a bit peckish."

He strolled out of her office to the break room to make himself a cup of tea, confident she wouldn't step foot out of the building one minute before noon.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

When he realized where they were headed, he knew why she had decided to leave at eleven thirty. It wasn't because she was eager for his company. They drove the fifteen minutes to Selland's Market Café, wanting to beat the lunch rush. He wondered at her choice. It was loud and crowded at Selland's, and they would have to practically yell to have their private talk. They stood at the counter and discussed their preferences before she turned and pointed toward the back of the huge warehouse-type room.

"I'll take care of the order. You grab that table in the back."

He turned, following her direction and made his way to the table, grabbing straws, napkins and that spicy ketchup she liked for her fries along the way. He watched her, glad for the distance so he could do so outright, hoping to get a read on her as well as enjoying the view. He embraced the pang he felt in knowing enjoying her from a distance was all he could ever hope for. She was small and slender, soft and deceptively delicate, athletic and physically fierce. She tilted her head and looked up at the order board when it was her turn. The guy at the counter took the opportunity to let his gaze roam over her. The man behind her was checking her out as well, specifically her rear.

Jane was surprised, shocked really, by the sudden, heated jealousy that swept over him. He had never experienced that before, not even with Angela, always sure of her, sure of himself with her. His mind swirled and blurred again, and by the time Lisbon got to the table, he was almost angry at her for letting them look.

"Are you okay?" Her voice was light, her eyes keen.

"No, yes, yeah." He shook his head to clear it. "I'm fine."

"Really? 'Cause you were looking at that guy over there like he was going to steal your sandwich."

_No. Not my sandwich._

"I'm fine. Just thinking."

"'Bout what?"

If she had asked him while she was taking a bite or situating her ketchup, he wouldn't have thought anything of it. He had almost missed it as it was, but she asked him so pointedly, looking right at him. He felt like he was being read.

"Nothing in particular."

"Really? I would have thought that with everything that's happened your head would be full of all kinds of things."

"Like what, for instance?"

Now she situated her ketchup, seemingly totally unconcerned with how the conversation would go. She was getting much better at deflecting.

"Oh, like . . . a little bit of guilt? The usual self-loathing? But I'll bet a lot of confusion. No, let's go straight for the big win. _Fear_. Fear that I'll get in your way."

He hadn't seen that coming. The nonchalance he had mistaken for deflection was a set-up to move straight in for the kill. He had to hand it to her. She took a small bite of her deli sub, still not looking at him, as if she wasn't curious about his reactions.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean, Lisbon." He had yet to unwrap his sandwich.

"Don't lie to me, Jane." She said it with an almost lyrical tone. Something about it seemed dangerous to him, and that made him angry.

"I'm not a suspect."

"I know. I'm not treating you like one."

"I'm not a mark either."

"I know that, too."

"You're reading me."

"Am I?"

His eyes narrowed, and he leaned across the table at her.

"What are you playing at, Teresa?"

His voice was intentionally low, mimicking that menacing tone he had used Thursday night just before she had yielded to him. She knew that coupling that tone with her given name was meant to produce the same result now. Fortunately, she was ready for him. More ready for him than he was for her. She felt her heart rate quicken but gave him no telltale sign of his effect on her. She moved languidly, lowering her sandwich to the table, lifting her napkin to dab at the corners of her mouth before she slowly raised her eyes to his, leaning back in her chair.

"As you're fond of pointing out, Jane, I'm not very good at playing your games. But over the years, I've become very good at watching you. Being amused by you, following after you, letting you have your head when I could tell you were on to something, even cheering you on at times."

He wouldn't let her know it, but he was confused. He had thought they would talk about what happened Thursday night. She would say it was a mistake, nothing could come of it because of regulations, their propensity for arguing and his blood quest. He would agree, and they would slip back into familiar routines. Where was she going with this? The lunch crowd was in full swing, and the sound around him was at full pitch, but it was background noise, like waves rushing the beach. All he could hear clearly was her voice, low and steady. He felt like he was being pulled toward her, not realizing that he was actually leaning that way.

"I've seen you trick Rigsby and bait Cho and play with Van Pelt. I've seen you outsmart Virgil and get around Hightower. I've seen you lie to the cheaters and cheat the players and play the cons. I've seen you take from everyone and give only when you knew you could take something away."

She leaned forward now, and he felt himself instinctively leaning back away from her. "I've seen _you_, Jane. And I see you now."

A small smile, half mischief, half malice curled at her lips. Something important had happened, and he had missed it. Long before the frightening and impossible revelations of the weekend, long before he had gone at her, only wanting her heat and her skin against him Thursday night. He tried to smirk his way out of it.

"And what—," he rolled his hand toward her, "—may I ask, is it exactly that you think you see?"

She leaned back in her chair, relaxed and confident.

"You hate yourself—"

"I've heard this all before, Lisbon."

"—for wanting me."

He froze, his hand still hovering above the table.

"You hate yourself for caring for me and worrying that it may put me in danger. It's been eating you up since that night. It shook you up, more than you realized, more than you would've thought possible, because it forced to you to see, forced you to feel what you've been trying not to feel for a while now. Remember, Jane? You said it yourself. _ "Anybody that gets close to me, bad things happen to them."_ But I wasn't the one moving, Jane. I was right where I've always been. I wasn't the one getting closer. You were warning me about what happens when _you_ get too close."

He lowered his hand and looked at her levelly. He remembered what she was talking about. A case, shortly after Kristina disappeared. Keith Farrow had killed his wife's ex for humiliating him and killed the ex's rich and powerful employer merely for confusion's sake. Lisbon had lied to him to get him to work the investigation because she saw him isolating himself. He had been surprised that she figured it out and caught him in the lie when he said he would stop. He looked down at his sandwich and frowned because he couldn't remember now what he had ordered.

He needed to slow things down, get control. He didn't like where she was taking this. It was too close to the truth, and he couldn't afford that—the cost was too high. He needed to throw her off, take the conversation in a different direction.

"Lisbon, you've got it all wrong. I've been worried about you and a little overly protective, I'll admit. But you weren't yourself for so long—the nightmares and the mood swings. I know you felt vulnerable and exposed . . ."

She wasn't buying it. She still sat back, but now she had crossed her arms, watching him with one eyebrow crooked. He had thought if he put the focus on her, her fears and weaknesses, he could shift her away from the very dangerous edge of the truth she had been skirting. The events of that night were the key. She had never been willing to talk about it in detail, probably had never even allowed herself to think about it. Although it was cruel, it was his one best weapon now. He just hoped she didn't fall apart on him in the middle of Selland's lunch rush.

"Lisbon, I think that night brought a lot of things to the surface you haven't wanted to face. Things about your life, your past, your family. It shook you up. It shook _me_ up, and I was only there afterwards. When he took you—"

"They."

"What?" The single word threw him.

"_They_ took me, Jane. _He_ didn't take me."

She knew. She knew all of it—what he had been thinking, what he was afraid of, what he had been feeling . . . what he felt for her. She'd had time to think about all of it, but unlike him, she hadn't been afraid to face the truth. She unfolded her arms and leaned into the table, her forearms resting on it. Her gaze was warm but direct. He felt the pull toward her again. He was many things, a fool among them perhaps, but he was no idiot. He sighed and folded his hands in his lap, curling his feet around the legs of his chair.

"How about if you just tell me how this is going to go?"

"You're not going to like it." He shrugged, but she could see the tension in his eyes.

"I know you don't want to face it, Jane. I know you don't want to admit your feelings for me, let alone _have_ those feelings. It would have been fine with you if you could've just gone on thinking of me as a cog in the machine you were using to hunt down Red John. It certainly would have been easier that way. For both of us. But that's not what's happened. It hasn't stayed nice and distant and by-the-book. It hasn't gone according to plan. But you have to face it. _We_ have to face it and decide what we're going to do about it."

"Lisbon, please, can't we just—"

"No, Jane, we can't _just_ anything. It's gone beyond that. That night, you opened my door, saw the evidence of what happened to me, saw my blood on the wall—"

He flinched, and she knew it had been like that other night for him—another door, another blood smear. She wished she could go easy on him, but it just wasn't possible. She had an objective, and it was imperative that she take him there.

"—and it brought your feelings to the forefront, and you didn't want to recognize them for what they were. But I was _alive_. You had gotten me back and there was nothing to keep you from acting on them and you did, without even realizing it—touching me, holding me, kissing me. It started to escalate, and Thursday night, it was suddenly too much to hold back. You wanted me, and when you acted on it, you panicked. For the last three days, you've been beating yourself up. You hate yourself for wanting me and for possibly putting me in danger. But most of all you hate yourself for knowing, even if you refuse to admit it, that wanting me and caring for me may possibly cause you to one day go off your hell-bent-for-vengeance course.

She straightened, pulling away from him, confident of what she was about to say.

Well, I've got news for you, _boy-o_. It already has."

At that his head snapped up and his eyes flared.

"_Never_," he spat at her, not caring if it hurt her. It didn't. She was just getting started. She smirked and there was mocking laughter in her voice.

"Oh, you still want him, but you're too completely distracted to get him. You've been my shadow for the past two-and-a-half months. You nearly panic if you don't know where I am. You call me numerous times during the day to talk about nothing. You use any excuse to touch me no matter how ridiculous. You sleep at my apartment at the slightest suggestion. I have your clothes hanging in my closet, your laundry in my hamper. Dammit, Jane, you watch me _eat!_

She had to make him understand what she was trying to say. Now she leaned forward, straining against the table's edge to get as close to him as it would allow. Her voice was intense, and her eyes were so clear, so focused.

"You've been off for the last three cases, and the only reason you noticed that necklace on Kimberly Nesbitt is because she came across the table at me. I thought you were bored during the interview, but you were looking around, surveying the grounds, watching out for me. You're nearly obsessed with keeping me safe, and it's slowing you down, throwing you off your game. You were right, Jane. I'm not good at playing your kind of games, but I can see it. I can read you. I'm two steps ahead of you. And if I'm two steps ahead, I can't imagine how far ahead Red John will be when you catch him, and that can – not – happen."

He looked at her stunned. It was the closest she would ever come to acknowledging that he might have his way in the thing. She leaned back satisfied she had made her point, but she wasn't finished yet, and her voice lost none of its force.

"I haven't changed my mind about Red John, Jane. If you try to do violence to him I will try to stop you. If you succeed, I will arrest you. I will cuff you and read you your rights and take your statement. I wouldn't leave that to anyone else, no matter . . ."

For the first time since she sat down she wavered. Her face nearly crumpled and the sudden tears hovered before sheer will took over. Her eyes glittered at him as her voice turned passionate, almost defiant.

"But I will _not_ see you stuffed and zipped into a body bag because you couldn't reconcile your feelings for me with your hatred for him."

He swallowed hard. There was no deep analysis or insight into his psyche in what she said, but the truth is always simple. He brought one hand to his forehead and scrubbed it hard down his face, trying to gather his thoughts. He inhaled deeply and sighed, never taking his eyes off hers. He really didn't know what to say or do. It wasn't the first time in four short months she had brought him to such a pass. Hopefully, she had an idea or two. Blessedly, she could read his mind.

"I think putting all our cards on the table is best. Tell me the truth, Jane. Just give the first answer that comes to mind. Don't think—it will only give you the chance to lie, and I'll know if you lie." He was positive that was true. "Since Thursday night, have you felt guilty?"

"No." He had already waded through that, and while he was still surprised by it, he was still just as certain of it.

"Neither have I. Are you confused in any way about your feelings for me?"

"No." It was almost a relief to say it.

"Good. Neither am I." The ridiculous thought that this wasn't very romantic crossed his mind. It was more like détente. She continued.

"You love me."

"Yes?" He almost laughed. Her statement should've been the question.

"Then heaven help us because I feel the same."

How in the world had she managed to make _that_ sound romantic? His sigh was like a white flag.

"Well, Bugsy, what do you propose we do about it?"

"I say we have at it."

His mind had never cleared so quickly.

"Can we go somewhere quieter?"

"Grab your sandwich."


	16. 16: Monday in the Park with Teresa

16. MONDAY IN THE PARK WITH TERESA (or RULES OF ENGAGEMENT)

Cho snapped his phone shut and sat hunched forward in his chair staring straight ahead, considering the phone conversation he'd just had with his boss. Van Pelt didn't even try to hide the fact that she'd been eavesdropping.

"That was Lisbon?"

He straightened and sat back in his chair.

"Yeah."

"So-o-o-o-o . . ."

He gave in and looked at her. He really didn't want this to turn into a conversation.

"She and Jane are going to be a little longer. At lunch."

"How much longer?" Rigsby had just walked into the room, back from picking up lunch at the sandwich shop on the corner.

"How should I know? She just said longer."

"Well, is it 'I've-killed-Jane-and-I'm-having-trouble-finding-a-place-to-bury-the-body' longer, or 'Everything's-going-well-and-we're-almost-done-coming-to-terms-with-our-relationship' longer?"

"The second one, I think."

"You _think_?" Van Pelt really did _not_ want the boss to come back in a bad temper. Lisbon's mood had seemed to be pretty good lately, in spite of the fact that Jane had been so out of sorts. It was nice not wondering if you were going to get your head bitten off every time you walked into Boss's office. If they could come to a meeting of the minds, Van Pelt had every confidence that it would be good for the both of them. And whatever was good for Lisbon and Jane made things very good for the bullpen.

"She didn't have that edge to her voice she has when you know she's thinking about whether she could get away with shooting him."

"So, it sounded like things were going good." Rigsby was hoping for a peaceful afternoon as well.

Cho swiveled to face the other two agents, leaning further back in his chair, his elbow propped on his desk, clicking a ballpoint pen.

"Define good. I mean, what are we hoping for here? Van Pelt, you first." If he couldn't keep them from talking about it, at least he could keep the discussion on track. Besides, the look on Jane's face when the boss announced they were going to lunch had been enough to pique his own curiosity.

"We're hoping that they tell each other how they feel." Van Pelt was tired of watching them dance around each other.

"They'd have to admit that to themselves first." Cho pointed at Rigsby with the pen. "Now you. Go."

"I think something must have happened last week and that's why Jane cut out Friday. I mean, why'd he call you? Why not call the boss or Hightower?"

"You're probably right, but not the answer to my question. Van Pelt?"

"I think Wayne's right. And Boss didn't try to call Jane all day Friday. That means she knew where he was, and she was okay with him being out. I mean, she wasn't angry or upset—just kind of resigned.

"Interesting observation. Rigsby?"

"This morning, she was fairly pleasant. Even before she had coffee. And she had to have known Jane was here, but she didn't go up to talk to him. Just worked in her office like she was waiting for him to come to her. And you should've seen her face when he did."

"You looked?" Weren't you afraid she'd see you?" Van Pelt knew how frightened he was of making the boss angry.

"No. See, if I move my monitor here—" He demonstrated by pushing his computer monitor to the left a few inches. "—and shift to my right like so—" He swiveled in his chair a few degrees and leaned his right elbow on his desk and pretended to type on his keyboard, "—I just have to move my eyes toward her office, and I can see pretty much everything that goes on in there without drawing her attention."

"How long have you been doing that?" Van Pelt's voice was rife with indignation that he'd been holding out on them.

"A few months now. After Jane's brother-in-law showed up. That detective with the SPD came in and ripped both of them a good one for letting him get away. I wanted to see what happened after he left, if Lisbon was going to let Jane have it. Anyway, if I know something's up, I shift everything around and . . . Eureka!" He grinned at Van Pelt, enjoying the joke of using one of her favorite words.

"So you've been doing this—watching them argue, make up, do whatever they do in there . . . and you never _told_ us?"

"What? It's not like you could've turned around to watch!"

"Well, you could've told us what was going on! Like a play-by-play!"

"No, he couldn't have. And we're getting off topic. I gather we're all in agreement. If Lisbon and Jane get together, provided he doesn't drive her nuts and she doesn't kill him, we're for it."

Rigsby and Van Pelt looked at one another, shrugged and nodded, and turned back to Cho.

"Yeah, man. We're for it."

"Yeah, I mean, it's not against the rules or anything. And if they can be happy together . . .," Van Pelt let her voice trail off. They all silently wondered about the probability of that. Cho decided to weigh in with his two cents.

"They're pretty well matched. Just the right amount of screwed up for each other. She takes care of him, he takes care of her. We run a little interference, pick up the slack in the paperwork, take Jane off her hands every once in a while. It can work."

Van Pelt beamed at him. Cho was smart and level-headed. Not much clouded his thinking, and he knew Boss better than any of them. If he said it was okay, she was sure it would be. And Boss and Jane _were_ an adorable couple . . . when there was no shouting.

"We can do that."

"Yeah, I'm in."

"Good. Let's get as much done as we can before they get back. No matter what happens at lunch, it'll make Lisbon happy, and that's always good."

Van Pelt turned her attention back to her computer, the romantic in her humming over the idea of a new romance in the office. Rigsby went to work on the stack of forms on his desk, leaving his computer where it was, confident there would be plenty to see when the Boss and Jane got back. And Cho, his work done and glad for the return to quiet, went back to the game of spider solitaire he'd been surreptitiously enjoying before the boss had called.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Lisbon drove the twenty minutes from Selland's to Garcia Bend Park. It was far enough away from the capitol and surrounding state buildings that she didn't need to worry about running into colleagues or bureaucrats that might recognize them. Garcia Bend was a soccer park, used in the evenings for practice and on the weekends for games and tournaments and was pretty much deserted during the day. It was situated on a bend of the Sacramento River with picnic tables under trees at the overlook. And, it was the only park in town where she had never worked a crime scene.

The ride had been silent, but not unpleasantly so, even though each of them was contemplating the next part of the conversation they had to have. They climbed out of the SUV and headed toward the overlook, pausing so Jane could buy two fresh bottles of water from a vending machine.

"It's pretty here. How do you know about this place?"

"Sam's oldest daughter played soccer here. I came a few times after . . . until Mandy moved them all back to San Francisco. During half-times, Mandy and I would walk along the river. She didn't want to talk to the other parents."

He mouthed a silent "Oh" but didn't say anything, allowing the subject to drop. He followed her to the farthest picnic table, and they sat on the top of it looking out at the river.

"So, shall we start with the easy part?" That was his Lisbon: point-by-point and methodical. "What are you grinning at?"

He smiled around the bite he had taken. "I'm just curious about what you might consider to be the 'easy part' of all of this."

"It's the part where I get to make all of the decisions and you have to just go along."

"Oh. _That_ part." It's not as if he hadn't known this was coming.

"About work—"

"I know. We keep it out of the office. It's not against the rules, you know." He took another bite.

"I know, but I don't want Hightower breathing down my neck about anything else. She watches us too closely as it is, second guesses me where you're concerned, always questioning my decisions. And that brings me to my next point."

"Is there a slide show with this presentation, Agent Lisbon?"

"Don't be smart. I need you to be up front with me, tell me about your schemes, your . . . plays _before_ you put them in motion, whether I'm involved or not. I don't like not knowing what you're doing."

"I'm just trying to protect you in case something goes wrong so you can have deniability." Another unconcerned bite.

"There's no such thing. Not for me. And when have I ever played that card? Do you really think I want to stand in front of Hightower and try to excuse myself by saying I had no idea what you were up to? I don't like not knowing what's going on with my team. It makes me feel foolish and incompetent. I can't blame Hightower for questioning me when I question myself."

He stopped mid-chew and looked at her then strained to swallow the bite.

"I never meant to make you feel that way, and you shouldn't. You're the best at what you do that I know. Every case you send to the DA is airtight because you're obsessive about the details. You have the best trained, most cohesive unit in the bureau, and you can take all the credit for that. You deal with the victims and their families as well as you handle the criminals. And while you don't control me all of the time, I've let you come closer to doing it that anyone else, and you smooth things over after me like—well, like it's your job."

"Wow. I know who I want to write my resume when this all goes south."

"Nothing's going south, Lisbon. I'll tell you everything—schemes, plays, theories. Work's fine. Let it alone."

He said that, but he didn't really like leaving it that way, like there was more to it he needed to find out and put to rest.

"Why didn't you ever tell me you felt that way?"

She looked down at the water bottle in her hand and shifted position, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew the answer to his own question.

"You didn't trust me."

"I didn't know if you would care, and if you didn't, I didn't want to know."

"Oh, Lisbon—" He wasn't very hungry now. He wrapped up the rest of his sandwich and put it on the table beside him then pulled one of her hands away from the bottle so he could thread his fingers through hers. "—I would've cared. I always did. You could've always trusted me to at least care."

She looked down at their hands, his left entangled with hers, then shifted again, this time closer to him. He gave her hand a light squeeze.

"I hope that's all of the easy part. I don't think I can take much more."

She laughed as she looked up at him and knew he could read what she was thinking in her eyes. He was right, and she trusted him. Work would be fine. She held his gaze, wanting to commit him in that moment to memory, wearing an easy smile that stemmed from the happiness she saw in his sea-green eyes. She knew it wouldn't last long.

"I guess that just leaves the hard part."

He knew what she meant, of course, but he didn't want to talk about it. He felt so good right now, as if Lisbon had infected him with the light-heartedness he knew was at her true center. He didn't want to drive that light from her eyes, and he certainly didn't want to fight, but he knew she had made up her mind to talk about it, and if he refused her, that would cause a fight, too.

"Lisbon . . . Teresa, I know what you want me to say, but I don't think I can—"

"I don't want to talk about that. I know how you feel, and you know how I feel, and I don't want to fight. I meant this," she looked down at their joined hands. "Us. And him."

"This is the part I can't . . . I don't like that this will make you show up on his radar."

"Jane, I became a blip on his radar the day my unit got the case. If he's been as close as we suspect, as close as we _know_, he's got to have noticed how close _we've_ gotten, that we're at least good friends. I'd say after the last few months—and even before—I've become a major ping."

He frowned down at their hands. "I can't pretend to know what he's thinking or how he sees this. I don't know what he'll do. It's probably a good idea to tone it down outside the bureau as well."

"You mean no holding hands in public parks?" She smiled up at him again, and he couldn't help but smile back in spite of his heavy heart.

"He's not done playing with you, is he? The game, I mean."

He was actually astonished that she saw it that way and could speak of it so easily. It was usually the kind of thinking she would deny had any validity.

"No, I don't think he's anywhere close to wanting to finish the game."

"If anything were to happen to me, that would take you out of it, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, probably for good."

"We'll leave it at that then." He was relieved to not have to talk about Red John in the context of their relationship and equally so about his precarious mental state. But he could tell there was something else on her mind.

"I know there's more. Spill, Lisbon."

"Just one more part of the hard part. I need you to tell me the truth."

"I said I would, every play—"

"I need to know the truth about all of the things you've been keeping from me so you could find him on your own. I know why you've done it—why you do it. You want to get to him first. But I want to stop him, too, and I can't do that if you're holding out on me. I want to know what he said to you, and anything—_everything_—you know about him and any of the cases that I don't know. This isn't a competition, and it's not about leveling the playing field. Regardless of what you want, I've got to be able to do my job. I won't be angry. I know you're hiding things, keeping things from me and the team. I just need to know the things you know. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

She didn't mean it as a test, but it was just the same. He could give her bits and pieces, but she would know if he held out on her. She would never trust him again. And she would wish she'd never loved him.

"I'll tell you everything. Today if you want, as soon as we get back."

She laughed suddenly and quietly with relief and had to bite her bottom lip to keep it from turning into tears.

"Thank you, Jane. I . . . just . . . thank you."

"Are we done talking now?"

"Yeah, I guess it's time to get back." She started to move from the table, but he pulled her against him, still holding her hand and sliding his free arm around her shoulders.

"No, I mean I just don't want to talk anymore."

He bent his head and kissed her as he untangled his hand from hers and raised it to cup her cheek. His tongue swept across her lips, and when they parted for him he traced along the top of her bottom teeth. She smiled against his mouth just before she gently bit his tongue's tip. He chuckled, and she felt the hum against her lips.

He pivoted her gracefully and laid her back on the table top, his hand on her cheek moving to her neck, fingers playing along her skin there then trailing down to her chest before his hand moved to cup her breast. He squeezed her gently, and she gasped, pulling away from him.

"Jane, we're in a public park. And people eat on these tables!"

"We're the only ones here—" The movement of her head had brought her ear close to his lips, and he bent to kiss her earlobe. "—and what those people don't know won't hurt them."

He bit the lobe then, teasing it between his teeth.

"We can't do this. It's one o'clock in the afternoon."

He pulled away from her now so that he could look her in the eyes. "Then what _can_ we do at one o'clock in the afternoon? You'll have to teach me your preferences for the days and times."

She laughed and wiggled under him, and he tightened his hold on her, his gaze going dark. She remembered what he had said just a few nights ago. _Don't taunt me, Teresa_. She felt her breathing go shallow, and she knew her eyes had darkened, too. She swallowed, and it took all of her willpower to pull herself together.

"My preference is to not be ravished on this picnic table in this public park on a Monday afternoon."

He stared hard into her eyes. His jaw tightened, and she could tell his teeth were clenched. His breathed through his nose, each slow exhalation forced and clipped. She could see him struggle to regain his composure. She fought the urge to writhe under him just a little to see what it would be like if he lost control. Instead, she raised her hand to smooth his curls back at his temple, and he closed his eyes and leaned into her hand. Finally, he breathed in then out, deep and slow. He turned his face to kiss the inside of her wrist. He opened his eyes and smiled down at her, and she couldn't help but smile back.

"I love you, Teresa."

"I know."

He grinned down at her, as pleased at that response as if she had replied in kind. After giving her a last affectionate squeeze, he lifted himself off of her and stepped down from the table, taking her hand as he did so and helping her down after him. They turned to walk back to the SUV, stopping to throw away the remnants of their lunch. He pulled her hand to curve around his elbow then covered it to hold it in place there.

"So . . . when would you _rather_ be ravished on that picnic table?"

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

They did talk when they got back to work, sitting together in the attic, and true to her word, Lisbon didn't get angry. She didn't understand much of what he had written in his journal but knew it required more than a scanning perusal. She flipped through forensic reports he had copied without reminding him that he didn't have proper authorization to have access to them or confiscating them. Making a mental note to have a subtle word with the evidence clerk, she moved on to the subject of the gun he'd gotten from Max Winters. If he applied for and received a permit and went to the CBI range for certification, she saw no reason for him not to keep the weapon. She would register it and keep it in her office until he met the requirements then transfer ownership to him. As for the journal and some of the reports, they would go over them together at a later time. They also agreed he would spend less time in the attic and she would get the custodial staff to clean the place up—under his supervision, of course.

She was just extracting a promise from him that he wouldn't spend the night up there anymore or sleep there during the day if he could help it when her phone vibrated with a call from Cho. They had a case.

Four hunters were found dead in a state park five hours from Sacramento. They worked the case for five days, staying at a nearby inn. Finally, after receiving the forensic report, they discovered a nervous park ranger had gotten a careless with his sidearm when the four men started causing problems while under the influence. He had tried to confuse the forensics by using their weapons to fire into and through the bullet holes made by his gun. They wrapped up the case and headed for home.

Then, for the next three days, Lisbon and Cho were in depositions for a pending trial. Another case followed hard after, and it continued like that for the next week-and-a-half. Jane and Lisbon both stayed at the CBI most nights, the rest of the team doing the same in various combinations, based on their duties. Jane and Lisbon were rarely alone together except for when they worked in the field or he slept on her couch. He would periodically retreat to his attic hideaway where she knew he worked on his journal, but he always wandered back to revolve around her wherever she was. They managed to keep their relationship on the down-low—as they believed—with the exception of Cho, who had asked Lisbon archly on the way back to the office on the final day of depositions what was up with Jane and why was he so "on"? She had simply smiled and shrugged, and Cho had firmly trained his eyes on the windshield.

Finally, on the last Thursday of May, they could see light at the end of the tunnel. All pending cases were either closed or stalled—thankfully there were far more of the former—and they could go home. Jane didn't push Lisbon for an invitation. She was dead on her feet and needed her rest, so it was the hotel for him. There was, however, one thing he needed to ask her before they went their separate ways for the night. He stopped at her office door on the way to the elevators and leaned in.

"You're going home soon." It wasn't a question.

"Mm-hm." She didn't look up from the papers in front of her. Her voice had a light, absentminded tone, and he knew he only had half of her attention. "Just have to read through and initial these last pages."

"You want to go out tomorrow night?" The words felt strange coming out of his mouth. He had been practicing for the last fifteen minutes, trying to find the right way to say it, and he was a little embarrassed that that's the best he could come up with. He and Angela had been together since they were kids. He didn't remember ever having to ask her out.

"Can't." She continued reading. "Got plans."

He had asked her months ago and bought the tickets the day after she said yes but didn't know if she remembered, so he was disappointed. More like crestfallen, but he wouldn't let her see.

"Going to see Shakespeare," she continued.

He tilted his head to one side, watching her.

"The Starlight?" he asked her. "On the river? 'Twelfth Night'? That Shakespeare?"

"Mm-hm. That's the one." Initial and turn page.

He took a quick but thorough look around the floor to make sure they were the last ones there before he stepped inside.

"You think you're pretty cute, don't you?"

"That's what my boyfriend tells me."

"Meh, there's no accounting for taste."

"Meh, I know. You should see my boyfriend." She looked up at him then, and when he leaned across her desk for a kiss, she stretched toward him and gave him one.

"Not too late," he murmured against her lips.

"Okay," she whispered back.

As he walked to the elevator, he slid his jacket off to drape it across his forearms and carry it in front of him, marveling at her effect on him after such a chaste encounter. They were the only ones left on the floor, but there were still lots of people he would have to walk past downstairs. He mentally chanted the mantra "She needs her rest, she needs her rest, she needs her rest" all the way to his car.


	17. 17: O Spirit of Love

17. O SPIRIT OF LOVE . . .

"Stop calling me."

"But I miss you."

"You saw me two hours ago."

"That was two hours ago."

"I can't talk right now. I'm getting ready for my date."

"Your _date_? Oh, come on. Who would ask _you_ out?"

"Oh, this creeper where I work."

"Creeper, huh?"

"Yeah, he's been after me for a long time. Kind of pathetic really. He's not much to look at, but I think he's got money."

"He'll probably be expecting you to put out, then."

"Oh, well . . . a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."

"Gold digger."

"Creeper."

She ended the call, wondering how he managed that particular blend of sleepy and seductive. Almost ready, she slipped into her shoes, knowing he wasn't far away.

The click and dial tone indicated she had terminated the call. Figures she would get the last word. He snapped his phone shut, smiling at her nonsense as he pulled to the curb outside her apartment. He knew in spite of her complaint she would be ready. She would know he would be on time, and she wouldn't want to keep him waiting.

He heard the deadbolts spin and slide as he approached, but the door didn't open until he had rung the bell. She stepped back to invite him in, but he hesitated on the stoop, wanting to get a good look at her. She took the opportunity to do the same, and they paused for a moment surveying one another. Jane stood with one hand in a pocket of his tuxedo trousers, his other hanging easily at his side. The heavy silk fabric molded to him in a flawless fit. Lisbon couldn't help but notice how narrow he was at the waist and hip without the bulk of a vest beneath his jacket, and by contrast how broad he was in the shoulders. The cobalt blue pocket kerchief was a nice touch. While she had taken him in at a lingering glance, his eyes roamed over her from the top of her head—where her fringe swept to the side, curls tumbling in a riot about her head and shoulders—across the subtle swell of flesh above the low-cut sweetheart neckline of her fitted dress of amethyst silk to where it ended just at her knees, down the curve of her calves to her nude peep-toed pumps and back up to her eyes, all the while a lazy grin spreading across his face.

"Lisbon, you are every man's fantasy."

"Then who better to escort me than God's gift to women?"

She grabbed her purse, set the alarm, pulled the door shut and locked it behind her. He took her hand and wound it through his elbow.

"Where are we going for dinner?"

"It's a surprise."

"Can't you ever just tell me?"

"You know, I really don't think I can. Anyway, have I ever let you down where the promise of food was concerned?"

She sat quietly in the car. He sighed dejectedly and gave in.

"We're going to 'Avec'."

She bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling, and he knew any other woman would have squealed. But not his Lisbon. When she reached across the console and put her hand on his arm, giving him a squeeze, he thought maybe he didn't have to surprise her all of the time—sometimes it was nice to just tell.

They were seated at a corner table by the window looking at the menu. She hadn't said anything for two full minutes. He leaned across the small table and spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice.

"You know, you _can_ just order a dessert for each course."

She raised her shining eyes to his. "Do you really think that would be okay?"

"Not the most healthy choice, but it's only one night."

"Maybe I could start with a salad."

"Sounds more balanced."

Good sense won out, and she ordered the duck confit but did manage to save room for the crème brulee. Dinner finished, they decided to walk to the river.

"I've had a wonderful time, and we haven't even been to the theatre."

He laughed at the way she said theatre with a breathy English accent. He wished he could keep her like this all of the time. He hoped it had mostly to do with the company, but had decided it also had something to do with her badge—she always seemed lighter without it. It wasn't her gun. He was pretty sure she had one in her purse right now. Unless she could fit a thigh holster under that dress. He glanced down. No, that didn't seem possible. It was definitely in her purse.

She held onto his arm the whole walk. He had to remember to feed her plenty of duck and desserts. They finally reached the Starlight, and they took their seats, third row center. The performance was a delight—almost as much as watching Lisbon watch it.

She practically danced all the way back to the car, again, never letting go of his arm. She suddenly stopped under a street light and hugged him, standing on tiptoe, both arms wrapped around his neck just like she had all those months ago, after that first nightmare. It had been a while since she'd been so close to him physically. When he felt her turn her head to kiss his cheek, he turned his head to meet her lips with his. She was surprised but didn't pull back. His arms circled her and pulled her against him as his tongue stroked across her lips. When she parted them in response he traced the inside of her mouth and swallowed her moan. She pushed further into him and sucked lightly on his tongue, and his groan reverberated through the both of them. He kissed his way down her neck and buried his nose in the soft crook of her collarbone, one hand pressing into the small of her back the other lower, pulling her hips against him. He needed to get control of himself, or he wouldn't be able to walk down the street.

"Patrick", she breathed into his ear. He groaned again into her neck, and his fingers clenched into her skin. It was the first time she'd ever called him by his first name. Later he would appreciate the level of professionalism she'd maintained throughout the years. Now he just wanted to be able to breathe again. She threaded the fingers of one hand into the curls at the back of his head and massaged his scalp. He shuddered under her touch.

"Stop. You have to stop. I can't . . ."

She froze and went rigid in his arms. He knew immediately what she thought and started rubbing his hands back and forth, massaging deep into the skin of her back.

"No, it's not that. I just can't feel anymore. I don't think I can stand it. I can barely breathe."

She started to push away from him, just to be able to look at his face, but he held her so tightly he knew he must be hurting her.

"Please don't make me let you go."

"Patrick, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Heat overtook him again at her assurance, and he kissed her where his lips rested against her then bit her just enough for her to feel the pinch. She gasped, and his tongue flicked over the stinging flesh. He kissed his way to her pulse point then moved his nose lightly up and down against her skin there, breathing her scent in deeply and releasing the breath on a moan before gliding open-mouthed kisses up her neck to find her lips once more. He kissed her full on the mouth then maneuvered her bottom lip to tease it between his teeth as one hand slid back around to the front of her waist and up to frame the undercurve of her breast. She groaned into him, and her own knees went weak as an answering heat overtook her whole being, causing her to roll her hips against him and growl into his mouth. She'd never been so aroused over a kiss in her life.

That's about when she remembered they were on a sidewalk under a street light in downtown Sacramento. She pulled her head back and looked at him as she tried to catch her breath. Sliding one hand down to push gently against his chest and the other down his arm to take hold of his elbow, she started to move to his side so they could continue walking.

"Come on, Casanova, let's get you back to the car before you get us arrested."

He grabbed her arms roughly and held her in place.

"Unless you intend to walk in front of me, that may happen anyway."

A few seconds passed as they stood looking into each other's eyes. She broke first.

"Okay, now this is just awkward."

"This is embarrassing enough. Can you be serious?"

"_You're_ asking _me_ that?" It was all she could do to keep from laughing in his face. Honestly, she couldn't understand why she didn't. She slid her right hand further down his left arm and threaded her fingers through his, brushing against the cool metal there. She raised their clasped hands to eye level and tilted her head as she looked at his wedding band.

"Patrick, did you feel guilty kissing me just now?"

"I haven't felt guilty about the way I feel about you for a while."

He could tell that answer satisfied her, but he wanted to offer her more than mere satisfaction.

"Do you want me to take it off?"

She considered that for a moment. It couldn't be that easy for him, could it?

"Not right now. I wouldn't want you to lose it. Whenever you're ready."

His arms went around her waist again, and he tucked her head under his chin. He had already given the matter some thought and knew the perfect place to keep the ring. He took a deep breath, like he'd been under water for a long time and had just broken through the surface. He remembered what she had told him months ago about how she felt after her mother died. That's how he'd felt for years. He relaxed against her, and she could feel that he was steadier now.

"Better?"

"Yeah, I can breathe."

"Me, too."

He looked down at her looking up at him, and he knew she remembered too. He took her hand and started toward the car.

"Teresa, do you think you could just take me as I am?"

"Right here?"

"Teresa."

"Patrick. Isn't that what I've been doing for the past few years? Within reason?"

"You've tried to make a few changes. Within reason."

"You've changed me more than I've changed you."

"How so?"

"Until recently, I wouldn't've been caught dead making out with one of my subordinates on a city street, and now look at me. I'm practically a fallen woman."

"Not yet, but here's hoping."

She stopped and looked at him.

"Patrick, I think we need to take this slow and easy."

He leaned over and whispered into her hair, "That's exactly what I had in mind." Something about the phrase "making out with one of my subordinates" had done something to him.

"Patrick?" A note of warning.

"Teresa?" He mocked her lovingly.

"Jane." Flat and frigid.

"Brrr. Turn off the cold, woman. Slow and easy. I get it."

"There's one more thing." She was suddenly serious, and he knew where she was headed.

"Teresa, I can't say—"

"Just this, and we won't talk about it again unless you want to. I just need to know that you're all right with an alternate ending, should it present itself. I can't be with you if you're dead set on things turning out one way and only one way. Frankly, it's just not practical."

"I'm not sure what that means." It was true. Sometimes these days her mental processes baffled him.

"Well, you think about it. You're usually a pretty smart guy; you can figure it out."

They walked along in silence. She didn't push him, and he knew she didn't expect an answer right now. He stopped, suddenly realizing what she was asking. She didn't expect him to give up on his revenge. She just wanted to know if he would be able to accept it if someone else got there first.

"I guess I'd be able to live with that."

"Good. Now let's go back to my apartment and make out on the couch."

"With a subordinate? That's absolutely scandalous."

"I know. Good thing my reputation's already shot to hell."

"Stick with me, Sweetheart, I'll show you a whole new world."

"Oh, I'm counting on it."


	18. 18:    How Quick and Fresh Art Thou

**As a warning, this chapter is rather M-ish. It also presents Jane in a way in which you may not wish to see him, but I can only suspend believability in Bruno Heller's universe so far, and I must draw the line somewhere and yield to base realities. I offer no apologies and can only hope you all understand.**

18. . . . HOW QUICK AND FRESH ART THOU (Twelfth Night: Act I, Scene 1)

They bickered and bantered all the way back to her apartment over everything from what to listen to on the radio to which character in the play had been the silliest and which the slyest. When they reached her door, she unlocked it and pushed it partially open before she turned to him.

"Do you want to—"

"Most definitely."

Once inside, she dropped her purse and keys on the desk and started to head into the kitchen.

"Would you like—?"

He caught her and pulled her back to him, cupping the back of her head in his left hand to tilt her face up to him before he took her lips in a soft, hungry kiss. His free hand circled her waist and pulled her tight against him, and her hands moved up his chest to take hold of the ends of his bowtie and pull it undone, leaving it hanging loose around his neck. Her left hand slid up and around to thread through his hair, pulling him more deeply into the kiss while her right set about undoing the buttons of his shirt. He massaged the base of her neck before gliding his hand around to her front and down to that delectable, ivory swell that had pulled at his attention since she had opened the door to him.

His fingertips danced across her skin just above her neckline where it molded to her breasts then back again to where it dipped low in the center. Just as he began to tease his way into the top of her dress, she reached to take his straying hand in her own and turned, walking gracefully backwards to the couch, pulling him along with her. He vaguely realized that she had only unbuttoned his shirt halfway down. No matter. They would finish in good time.

The thought of those words in this moment made him hesitate for an instant, and a light he saw flicker through Lisbon's eyes told him she had seen it and understood. They both knew that for him, at least, it had been more than a while. He hoped all of that stuff he'd been spouting to the team for years about mind over matter and biorhythms was true.

When they reached their destination, she pulled him to her and kissed him hard, somehow pivoting him as she did so and leaning into him to let him know she wanted him to sit. As he did so, she broke off the kiss and lowered herself to straddle him. Once they were settled, she took his lips again then trailed kisses along his jaw and down his throat even as one hand moved to unhitch his trousers. He tried to pull her back to gain more access so that he could do more than just stroke her back while she effectively brought him nearer to the edge. She seemed to want to be the active partner, and he was content to let her for a while. Very content, but only for a while. He wanted—_needed_ to slow things down. As his mouth was currently unoccupied, of course, he spoke.

"Did you take dance class as a girl?" His slow, deep, controlled breathing belied the casualness of the question.

"Hm?"

"Dance classes?"

"Mm . . . why?"

"Arriere, pivot and plié. Like an erotic ballerina."

She paused and raised herself so that she was slightly above him looking down at his face. Their bodies were so close that he had to lean his head back on the top edge of the couch to look up at her.

"What?"

"An erotic ballerina. The arriere, the pivot, the plié."

"You're talking about this now?"

"You have me at a disadvantage. Would you rather I just lie here like a piece of meat?"

"Yes."

"Lisb—"

"Teresa. When we're like this . . . Teresa."

His eyes and voice softened.

"Teresa." It came out on a sigh. "I don't do passive very well."

"Patrick, I know this isn't what you might've planned—if you planned, but—"

Either too embarrassed or too intent to continue speaking, she decided to simply act on her intentions. Gaze locked onto his, her left hand traced its way to his chest, and she pushed on him and held him in place as her right hand smoothly descended beneath his trousers to grasp his erection. He hissed as she began to stroke him, and his breathing deepened further still, only now in an erratic non-rhythm as he began to feel his control slip away. He raised one hand in an attempt to still hers.

"Teresa. I can't—"

"Sh-h, Patrick. Don't worry, I've got you."

"I know. Believe me, I . . . know."

He knew what she was doing, and while he was not especially keen on the idea of _their_ first time being _his_ first time, her grasping and stroking him combined with the swirl of her thumb over his tip to catch and disperse the fluid that had gathered there was already beginning to undo him. Unable to hold his eyes open anymore, he leaned back and let his thoughts center on the sensations she was causing. His hands traveled down her back, over her backside and around to grasp her thighs, left bare where her dress had ridden up. She leaned her upper body full against his so he could feel her weight on him as she gently bit her way up the side of his neck, scraping her teeth along the strained tendon there. His hands were squeezing her so tightly, she knew she would have bruises where his thumbs were boring into the front of her thighs. When her lips reached his ear, she bit the tender lobe then swept it with her tongue, and he groaned loud and deep. She whispered pleadingly to him.

"Let go, Patrick. Please just let go for me."

His ragged gasp tore through the quiet of the room, and his body caught and held the breath of it. His heartbeat seemed to pound through his whole being until its thrumming was all he could feel and hear. The furrow of his brow deepened, and he wanted to look at her, wanted her to look at him and see how good she had made him feel, but he knew if he could open his eyes right now he wouldn't be able to see, knew it from the explosions of light going off in his head just behind his eyelids. He felt her continue to stroke him while he pulsed in her hand. Finally, his body relinquished the breath it held, and he willed himself not to faint from euphoria and the almost unbearable sense of lightness and pleasure that suddenly enveloped him.

Her weight lifted off of him, and he felt cold and bereft. The water running in the kitchen registered, and he felt something warm and damp against the skin of his abdomen. He opened his eyes to see her straighten and walk toward the kitchen until she was close enough to lob the cloth she had used to clean him into the kitchen sink then turn and walk back to where he sat.

Lowering herself onto the couch beside him, she curled her legs beneath her and kissed his temple before she brushed back the damp curls that clung there. He looked down the length of himself, disheveled and thoroughly mussed, the bottom few buttons of his shirt still fastened.

"I am really, _really_ glad this isn't a rental."

It took a moment for her to realize what he meant, and when she did, she burst into laughter—that musical, delighted, surprised laughter that he loved _so much_. He closed his eyes and his head fell back, and he tried to hold off the grin that threatened to spread across his face as her fingers traced lazy designs on the skin of his chest.

"So much for slow and easy."

"Well, at least you got one of them right."

He couldn't hold the grin back any longer, and when he realized he wasn't too embarrassed to actually look at her, he rolled his head toward her as his eyes opened.

"You are a very wise and generous woman, my little love."

"I'm afraid I was motivated in large part by selfishness."

"Sweetheart, only you would think that was in anyway selfish."

"Well, you can reward me later." She looked at him and pondered something, but only for a moment. "You want to go to bed now?"

"Are you inviting me to?"

"Yes, that's exactly when I'm doing."

"All right then."

"All right then."

"You'll have to help me up—I don't know if I can walk by myself."

She stood, taking his hand as she rose, and pulled him to his feet. When he was all the way up, his hand slid up her arm and around her shoulders. They headed for the stairs, and Jane stopped suddenly just in front of the first step. Teresa looked up at him questioningly, suddenly fearful of what might be in his mind.

"Am I right in assuming the 'no funny business' thing doesn't apply?"


	19. 19: In This Most Happy Wreck

**After this chapter, only the Epilogue remains. This installment is M, and I have debated over whether I should change the rating of the story because of it. I don't like to apologize for anything I write, but if this offends anyone, I do apologize and will change the rating if anyone feels strongly about it. And that's all I'll say about that.**

**In "Twelfth Night", a bunch of confused people fall in and out of love and are very surprised by the end results. Count Orsino is very glad to find that his man-servant is actually a lovely young woman, thus explaining his troubling attraction to the youth. As everything gets cleared up, Orsino exclaims, "I shall have share in this most happy wreck," and declares his love (I know—only a man would find that romantic, right?) The line reminded me of Jane and Lisbon; hence, the reason for this title.**

19. IN THIS MOST HAPPY WRECK (Twelfth Night: Act V)

She left him at the top of the stairs, motioning him to the bedroom as she walked toward the bath. When she came back a few minutes later, having brushed her teeth, she was surprised to find him sitting in the dark—except for the nightlight she now slept with—on the foot of the bed, his shirt and tie and jacket lying next to him and his discarded shoes and socks on the floor. He was looking down at the latter as if he didn't know what to do with them. She wished she could see his eyes so she could tell what he was thinking, whether he was embarrassed or uncomfortable or . . . having second thoughts?

"Here, I'll take care of all this while you wash up, and then we can get some rest. Your toothbrush is still in the cup."

He grinned at her widely and chuckled before walking out the door, and she couldn't figure out what she had said that was so amusing. She tossed his jacket and shirt in with her dry cleaning and the socks into the hamper. Her earrings and cross necklace went into the jewelry box on the chest, and she had kicked her pumps off and was just putting his shoes on the floor inside her closet when she stood and caught his reflection behind hers in the full-length mirror that hung on the inside of her closet door.

He was completely naked, and his proximity startled her. There was just enough light in the room that she could catch the dark look in his eyes before his hands, both now bare, went to either side of her waist and held there, his gaze locked on hers in the mirror. When he saw the understanding in her eyes that she wasn't to move, his hands slid to her back and up to the top of the zipper of the amethyst dress, his eyes never leaving hers. He unfastened the tiny hook then slid the zipper down slowly. Sliding his hands around her waist again, this time under the dress, he peeled it away from her then pushed it down over her hips till it fell and pooled on the floor. She stepped out of it and kicked it to the side, mesmerized by his eyes looking into hers as his hands slid over her body.

All she was wearing now was her panties, and the slightest smile, lazy and pleased, teased at his lips as he slid one hand into the front of the violet and black lace while the other held firm at her side. He stroked her once, and his smile broadened into a grin when she gasped and flushed at the realization that she was already wet. His hand slid to the side and the other descended, pushing the fabric confection down her hips and over her thighs until it too fell to the floor.

He brought his hands to the front of her waist and abdomen, splaying his fingers there momentarily, and instinctively, her hands moved to rest along his forearms. He dipped his head to kiss her shoulder, still holding her gaze with his, conveying a silent warning not to look away. She couldn't even if she wanted to.

He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, his lips still resting against her shoulder as his hand at her waist slid up to cup her breast and the other descended to her core. She watched his hands moving on her, the one massaging her, his thumb and forefinger teasing and rolling her nipple until it peaked and stung with the heightened sensation, the other stroking and reaching into her only far enough to draw out her wetness and slicken her flesh. Her breathing shallowed until she tried almost painfully to fill her lungs. She was getting dizzy as if she were at a higher altitude and the air was too elusive and fine.

She groaned when he withdrew his hands from their respective occupations, but moaned in relief when they only slid along her to change places, the lower hand now moving up to her other breast. She closed her eyes and let her head fall to the side, but his hands stilled, and she understood she was to keep watching. It took great effort to straighten and open her eyes, and when she did, his own eyes were open again, looking directly into hers, bending her to his desires. Satisfied with her silent promise that she wouldn't go against his wishes again, he rewarded her by pulling her firm against him so that she could feel his arousal, full and hard against her.

His eyes closed again, his lips lowered back to her shoulder and his hands resumed their dance to the rhythm of her near panting, broken only by her sharp intake of air when he slid two fingers into her at once, moving slightly to the side so he could change the angle of his wrist, pushing into her more deeply. His pace speeded, and his fingers curled upward as he shifted his hand and pushed and rubbed against her nub with the heel of his palm. His kneading grasp on her breast was near punishing. She could feel the heat grow and gather low in her, the sensations mounting with the erotic effect of the somewhat voyeuristic thrill of watching what was being done to her.

The clench of her muscles around his fingers told him she was close, and he released her breast and slid his arm around her torso. Her eyes moved to his in their joined reflection, and when she realized he was watching his hand on her, the heat suddenly unfurled, her climax moving through her hard, like warm fingers under her skin, down her legs and along her arms, causing her knees to buckle and her body to sag until she was all but hanging in his embrace. He held her weight against him, his hand still stroking, sending reverberations through her like aftershocks. He shifted his eyes to hers, and his gaze softened as he caught the silent pleading there. He nuzzled his cheek against hers, and finally—_finally_—she could close her eyes and let her head fall to the side, her body completely spent.

He withdrew his fingers from her and bent to slide one arm behind her knees as the other arm slid around her back, and he lifted her and carried her to the bed. As he laid her down as far from the edge as he could manage, the haze in her head cleared enough to realize he must have turned the bed back while he waited for her earlier. The bed dipped, and he laid half-way on top of her, his right leg between hers, his left forearm lying next to her shoulder and head, supporting some of his weight above her. Her eyes were still closed, and she smiled to herself when she felt him kissing her forehead, her cheek, her nose, her chin, slow and light. His right hand smoothed across her waist then up to tease her left nipple, but when she winced at his roughness against the sensitive and raised flesh, he lightened his touch to circling and stroking it gently with his flattened fingertips.

"Patrick?" She was getting used to calling him that. She was already used to lying here with him like this-like this was where she was supposed to be. There was one more thing they needed to talk about seriously, but what he was doing was not conducive to serious conversation. She suddenly thought of her handcuffs and wondered just how adventurous he was willing to be. She would have to find out if he was all flash and no stay. Right now, they did need to talk.

"You know this has to . . . that we can't be like this as—" she shuddered when he found a particularly sensitive spot on her neck. He marked it with his teeth then tongue, and she shuddered again.

"We can't be here like this as much as we would want. People can't know. _No one_ can know. Not everything anyway."

He knew what she meant and that they were taking an almost incalculable risk, but he didn't want that here, not right now. So, he just kept kissing her, gradually making his way down to her pulse point.

"Then I guess it's good . . . we've established a pattern . . . of late-night stays at the office . . . and that you have a bigger couch . . . and a lock . . . on your door."

"Patrick, we can't have sex in my office . . . can we?"

"Well, Pumpkin," he smiled when she huffed at him. "If you're worried about professional . . . and appropriate . . .," he was kissing his way down to her right breast. "—I think . . . we left those . . . at the door."

His tongue swirled around her nipple, and she smiled down at his curls. She had to admit he was right. Despite her best and near constant efforts, the words "professional" and "appropriate" had never described their relationship. His head moved further down, and his kiss lingered just above her navel before he started making his way back up to her lips. She was fast on her way to admitting anything if he kept this up. _Ah, well_.

"I just don't want to scandalize the custodial staff."

He raised his head and looked at her, realizing she needed to talk about at least this part of it before they continued. Not wanting to lose momentum, he exchanged kissing her for moving his hips and gently stroking himself against her, pleased when her eyes glazed slightly as evidence that he had at least momentarily interrupted her train of thought.

"Only half of them will be scandalized, my dear, and that will be over having to pay up."

"What?" She dragged her head to the side and tucked her chin, pulling back so she could see him more clearly

"What do you suppose they think we've been doing in there several nights a week for the past few years? We bicker and fight and flirt all day—"

"_Flirt?_ I never—"

"I know it wasn't intentional, but that's what made it so hot." He dipped his head and tongued her nipple before raising his head again. "Well, . . . _one_ thing anyway."

"I don't want gossip and rumors—"

"There already are."

Grudgingly, she knew that must be true. "But it would be different now."

"Teresa, _if_ anyone catches on, and they won't if you can keep your hands to yourself—" He winced when she pinched his upper arm. "—they fear and respect you too much to say or do much. And believe me, with the supply closet shenanigans going on there, we'll only be a ripple in the pond."

"Supply closet, huh?"

He drew back and looked at her now. "Forget it, woman. I'm not going at it against Tom's cleaning cart."

She chuckled at him and raised her lips to his before lying back on the pillow.

"What about you? Do you fear and respect me?"

He lowered his head back to her and began kissing where he left off, moving up her neck to her jawline.

"Of course . . . I respect . . . every inch . . . of you."

He shifted his weight and pushed into her, the stroke moving slow and deep, and her lips parted in a silent breath. He had been so sure of himself that the urge to move hard and fast toward release took him by surprise. But he stilled himself, looking into her round eyes, silver in the low light. Slowly he moved, pushing into and against her three times before he raised himself up and back to kneel on the bed then lifted her to him. Her legs wrapped loosely around him as her hands rested on top of his shoulders. His hands moved down her back and settled on either side under the curve of her bottom. He lifted her a bit then slowly lowered her, whispering against her skin.

"Every inch of you . . . against every inch of me."

He closed his eyes and repeated the action. And again.

Feeling that urge again and knowing he needed better control, he wrapped his left arm tightly around her and leaned forward, his right hand bracing against the mattress as he lowered them back to the bed. She reached back and did the same with her right hand to ease their descent. He moved now in a rhythm of away and to, nearly pulling out of her each time to feel her along his length. She lifted one knee, and he caught it with his arm, pulling it against him, deepening his thrusts. Her eyes held his, and he couldn't look away. The tension was building, and he felt something frenzied ripple through him, and he didn't know how much more of the combination of touch, smell, sound and sight he could bear.

He was beautiful to watch, but she could feel the heat building on and in him. Both of her hands had hold of his upper arms, fingernails digging into the pleasant firmness there, and when she moved one hand up and behind his neck and pulled his head down for a deep kiss then further down to snug his face against her throat, he groaned deep with relief at her unspoken encouragement to let go. The breath that escaped him fanned across her chest, and the intensity of his passion and helpless desire suddenly overwhelmed her, and she felt a flush of new moisture as she started to clench around him. His head shot up and eyes locked on hers as the force of her orgasm raised her head and shoulders from the pillow. He pulled back and moved deep into her once more then buried his face in her shoulder as he came, groaning fierce and primal against her. All of the air went out of him and he inhaled on a whimper. They could not cease, still moving against, pulsing around and within one another until finally, they stilled. She laid limp and practically spread eagle beneath him, and he rested unmoving on her, only the fingertips of his right hand moving in her hair where it spread across the pillow.

"I take back every old-man joke I ever made about you."

He chuckled and made to push off her, but she held him in place, wanting to feel his weight on her a little longer. He shifted some of his weight off of her instead and smiled down at her.

"Good, because I feel like a seventeen year-old right now."

"None of the seventeen year-olds I knew could do that."

"How many did you test drive?" His smile was darkened only a little by the beginnings of an inquisitive frown.

"Girls talk. If a guy had been able to do that, we _all_ would've known."

She reached up and touched his curls, once again dampened at his temples and the base of his neck. She chuckled, and he looked at her, waiting for an explanation.

"I'm just glad I finally got you to exert yourself."

He laughed out loud and buried his face in her neck, pushing his hands between her back and the mattress so he could wrap his arms all the way around her. She gave him a little push and made to get up, but his hold on her tightened. Even though his voice was muffled, she still heard the hint of worry.

"Where are you going?"

"To get a drink. I have a serious need to replenish . . . And do other stuff."

He didn't relinquish his hold or move, and she began to worry now.

"Patrick? . . . Hey."

"I don't suppose I could come with?"

"Well, you could, but the romance of the moment would be seriously diminished, and there would be absolutely no mystery left. Besides you probably have stuff to do, too. How about you go down the hall, and I'll go to the little bath downstairs, and I'll meet you back here in five minutes with a couple of bottles of water. That sound good, . . . Muffin?"

His body relaxed, and he raised his head, dropping a kiss on her nose.

"Perfect, my little gum drop."

He released her and practically hopped off the bed in one direction as she rolled off in the other. At the same instant, they remembered one very important thing that had completely slipped their minds in the heat of passion. They looked at each other from their respective sides of the bed. His sheepish look of apology caused the momentary panic she had experienced to dissipate _almost_ altogether. One side of her mouth smirked into the dimple that never completely disappeared, and she shrugged her shoulders. He smiled tentatively as if to say "If you're sure", and she waved him off. Once he cleared the doorway, she opened the nightstand drawer to make sure everything was in place for the next time. Tomorrow was Saturday, after all, and she had the feeling Patrick Jane was a weekend man.

Four minutes later, they met back in the bedroom. She'd only had one water bottle in the fridge, but they didn't mind sharing. They settled into the bed, lying more on her side of it than his, her back to his front. His right arm lay across her pillow with her head resting in the crook of his shoulder. His left hand rubbed at her waist then smoothed around her rib cage and slanted across till his fingers swirled around her right nipple then settled to firmly cup her breast.

"I always figured you for a leg man."

"Always was. I guess you _have_ changed me in some ways."

"I don't think I can sleep with your hand there."

"Think of it like living next to the railroad tracks, Lisbon. You'll get used to it."

They lay in the darkness—he had turned out the nightlight, declaring she wouldn't be needing it anymore—and relaxed into each other.

"I love you, Jane."

"I know, Lisbon."

She really didn't think she'd be able to sleep with his hand there, especially if he kept doing that with his fingers. She covered his hand with hers to still his movements, waiting for him to fall asleep so she could move his hand.

"Teresa?" His voice was already sleepy.

"Hm?" Hers was the same.

"Is there food for breakfast?"

"Mm-hm."

"Teresa?"

"Hm?"

"Do you have off-duty cuffs?"

"Mm-hm." He burrowed deeper into her back and drifted into sleep.

She was right. Patrick Jane was a weekend man. He also proved himself to be all flash _and_ stay. And there was no need for a phone call on Sunday.


	20. But That's All One, Our Play Is Done

20. BUT THAT'S ALL ONE, OUR PLAY IS DONE (Twelfth Night: Act V)

[EPILOGUE]

"Cho. What's up with the boss?"

The senior agent in the room raised his eyes from his book and looked through the blinds into where his superior sat at her desk, staring at seemingly nothing. He gave a shrug that said "I don't want to talk about it" more than "I don't know". He couldn't help if Rigsby interpreted it correctly or not.

"Yeah, Jane's back to himself, but she's been kind of off for the last couple of weeks. I mean, she's still herself in the field, but when she's in her office, it's like she's in a daze."

It was mid-June now, five months out from Lisbon's kidnapping. Grace had noticed the subtle change in her boss and was concerned. She was glad someone else had noticed and brought it up. She always felt better about stuff like this when the three of them could talk it out, kick it around a little. She had interpreted Cho's shrug correctly and wasn't going to let him off as easily as Wayne had.

"Cho. Spill."

"There's nothing to spill . . . It's none of my business anyway."

He could feel her looking at him, and when he finally pulled his eyes away from the page he hadn't been able to focus on since Rigsby first asked his question, she was glaring, one eyebrow raised, her arms folded. She wasn't going to let this go. He sighed and—trying to keep up the pretense that he was still able to read his book—tossed an answer toward the other two agents.

"It's Jane."

"Jane?" Rigsby asked before he raised his fresh cup of coffee to his lips. "What's he done now?"

Cho waited just an instant. Timing was everything.

"Her."

Rigsby gulped hot coffee, sprayed and sputtered. Cho turned back to his Tolstoy, a self-satisfied smirk pulling one side of his mouth up into a dimple. A wheezing sound caught his attention, and he looked across at Van Pelt. Her arms were still crossed, but now her eyebrows were raised, eyes widened and jaw dropped almost unhinged in shock, hard and silent laughter bringing tears to her eyes. He loved how good he was.

Grace walked-rolled her chair across the room and parked right next to his desk, facing the opposite direction. She reached out and splayed her hand across his book, gently pushing it down and to the side. Not even Rigsby had ever dared touch his book.

"Wait . . . Wait. Are you saying that he . . . and she . . . that they . . .?"

"That's usually how it starts, yeah."

Again, she burst into laughter so hard she wasn't making any sound except for the air that was wheezing out of her, which she tried to control by clapping her hand over her mouth. The three agents were practically sitting side by side now with Grace in the middle, and Rigsby watched her, amused. Something of his original question resurfaced in his mind, and he turned to look back at their out-of-it boss.

"But why does she keep staring at her couch?"

He turned back to look at the other two, and Cho raised one eyebrow as if to say "You figure it out." Grace's laughter ceased immediately, and her forehead furrowed deep into the frown that pulled at her face.

"Oo. The couch? I . . . I _sat_ on that couch yesterday!"

She stood and fled, making a bee-line for the ladies' room. Rigsby reached for her chair and stretched out to nonchalantly scoot it around his desk, giving it a shove back towards its usual place.

"What does she think she's going to do in there that'll make it better?"

Cho shrugged again, eyes on his book. "I don't know. Wash her hands. Stare at herself searchingly in the mirror. Frown at the sink a few minutes before she gives up and comes back."

She was back in less than five. She put her palms down on her desk and lowered herself gingerly into her chair as if no seating surface was safe anymore. Rigsby watched her, again amused, but his head suddenly jerked up as something beyond her grabbed his attention.

"Hey." He nodded, looking past her. "Jane on your three."

She got up out of her chair and walked slowly back towards Cho's desk.

"Don't look, don't look, don't let him see you looking."

She picked up a paper from Rigsby's desk and turned to lean back against Cho's. He looked up at the back of her head then glanced down in annoyance at where her butt rested against the edge of his desk. Grace was losing all sense of the concept of personal space, namely his. He ever so slightly shifted his weight in his chair and moved his book so he could covertly look over the top of it into Lisbon's office. Grace did the same over the top of her paper. Wayne shifted to his right as he slid his computer monitor over to the left a few inches. It didn't matter that light from the windows now made it impossible for him to see what was displayed there.

Jane leaned on the door frame and watched Lisbon for a moment, his expression blatantly possessive. Lisbon's gaze had moved to her computer screen when she felt his presence. She resolutely refused to acknowledge him. He said something to her, and her hand twitched, eyes shifted but she still didn't look at him or speak. His look turned predatory. He moved to the couch and sat, tucked into the corner furthest from her. He reached out and patted the space next to him.

"Said the spider to the fly." Grace snickered at Rigsby's smarmy tone. "Poor little fly." He said in a mocking sing-song.

Lisbon wouldn't budge. Jane said something else and leaned back into the couch, draping his arm across the top back, lightly stroking the leather where his fingertips rested against it. Lisbon relaxed completely into her chair and looked at Jane, her eyes glittering with something other than anger. She gave a short reply, and his hand stilled, body tensed. He stood, and her eyes went back to her computer screen, the self-satisfaction radiating off of her. He walked slowly out into the hallway and turned to look back into her office, one hand at his hip, the other moving through his hair. He chewed his lower lip in frustration and uncertainty.

"Poor spider," Grace retorted.

Jane suddenly glanced toward the bullpen then away then back immediately in a double take. They had all forgotten they weren't supposed to look like they were looking. A sudden smile of pure mischief lit his face, his bottom lip still caught between his teeth. He winked at them, and they stared back at him in shock. He looked around quickly, making sure there was no one else in the area. He didn't skip, but he had this way of moving sometimes that reminded Grace of how Gene Kelly used to dance across their television screen at home. Her mother had always loved Gene Kelly.

Jane danced back over to Lisbon, slid his arm under hers, hoisted her up and kissed her full on the mouth. She didn't even struggle, and Jane pulled back and looked at her as if he was wondering something, shrugged and kissed her again.

As one, the three agents raised their eyes to Hightower's office then turned to look at one another in silent agreement. Satisfied that this looked very good for the bullpen, Cho went back to his book, Rigsby readjusted his computer screen and Grace danced back to her desk. Rigsby handed Cho a folded bill, and not even their short conversation of what to bet on next—Jane's possible death or which one of them might propose or Lisbon's possible pregnancy—could dampen Grace's spirits. The quiet scraping sound against the glass behind her and the expression on the men's faces told her the blinds had been closed.

"_This_," she decided, "_is a wonderful turn of events. _She had read that phrase in one of Cho's books when she was on stake-out with him and thought it fit perfectly. "_I told Jane to do whatever it took. I should've known he'd get creative. I had every confidence._"

She couldn't help but smile to herself smugly, as if she had somehow authored the whole thing. No matter how good she felt about the outcome, though . . . she was never sitting on that couch again.

**END**

**Thanks so much to all who read and reviewed and encouraged me through this story. I hit a creative rough patch early on, and kind words from so many of you conveying that you sincerely wanted and wished for me to do well was a motivational blessing. **

**Thanks especially to information specialist and Donnamour1969 for your unfailing encouragement; to SakuraAkira365, LSR-7 and xanderseye for loving the characters so much; to liv-einziger for philosophical discussions that helped me see Lisbon more accurately; to Jbon, who used and relied on the story as a physical pick-me-up (hope you feel better soon); to AngelDiabolique and Aurora-Stormwind for reading me at work (which I loved), for making me laugh with very few words and for some of the best compliments I've ever gotten; to all of you who were so faithful to read late at night when you were dead tired; and to the amazing Rhi for her unflagging enthusiasm and kinship (and for the calendar).**


End file.
